


Shards

by orphan_account



Category: Gackt (Musician) - Fandom, L'Arc~en~Ciel
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-22
Updated: 2008-08-04
Packaged: 2017-11-26 07:04:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 45,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/647875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>an introspective piece that tries to recreate the feeling of how a real romance might unfold between two successful, high profile men when neither of them really knows how to progress a relationship. Emphasis on realism, uneasy feelings and secret longing, rather than outspoken love.</p><p>With that said, I hope you enjoy the ride...and the eventual romance, even if it is bittersweet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pressing Moments, 1

**Author's Note:**

> Rating: PG-13 (for pro-homosexual content, and some kissing).  
> Warnings: Cursing.  
> Pairings: Hyde x Megumi, as they're married. (GakuHai if you squint, in the later chapters).
> 
> Summary: L’Arc’s practice session comes to a screeching halt when Hyde collapses. Ken, Tetsu and Yukihiro rush Hyde to the hospital, where they wait uncomfortably for Hyde’s diagnosis. Who will Hyde turn to? Megumi + Hyde implied. Soft, inferred GakuHai. 1st person present, Hyde. First in the "Shards" series of short stories.
> 
> Notes: I’ve taken the liberty of calling Hyde and Megumi’s son Hinata. Because the boy needs a name, and because Hyde is adamant about not telling us what his name is, I picked one for him. ^^
> 
> Disclaimer: This story is fiction and is not intended to be taken as fact. All publicly recognizable people are being used as characters in fiction and the author does not believe these events happened, will happen or should happen. The author is in no way associated with the real people and makes no claim of any sort on their persons.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> L'Arc's practice session spins to a halt. Hyde's PoV.

Chapter One.

“I need to sit down.” I step away from the microphone even as the others continue playing, anxiously shifting from foot to foot. My head feels heavy, my stomach wrong. It’s mid afternoon, and we’re in the middle of practice, working and reworking the new songs. Everyone’s been working so hard, and I’m trying to keep up, but something is just not right. 

Tetsu sets his base down, a tense frown wrinkling his forehead. “Hyde?” He makes my name into a question.

My stomach churns uneasily, and I feel sick. I grab my bottled water, acutely aware of everyone’s eyes on me. Watching my every motion like there’s a spotlight just on me. “Sorry, sorry.” I mumble, and wipe my mouth. “Just give me a minute,” I say, uneasily lowering myself to the floor. I sit on the cold ground. “Just a minute,” I mumble, looking down to steady my water-bottle.

“Break?” Tetsu asks, and he sets his base down, shedding it like so much clothing. Tetsu brushes past the equipment, and slowly, deliberately, heads towards me. His hand is callused and familiar when he offers it. “Floor doesn’t look so comfortable,” he shrugs, smiling. 

I smile back at him gratefully, and he hauls me to my feet. I walk in a daze, like a sleepwalker wandering through misty dreams. I lick my lips, not even pretending to listen to what everyone’s saying. My mind wanders, but I don’t focus on any one thing. My stomach doesn’t feel right. I sit on the couch, trying to breathe slowly, to relax. If I just relax, the feeling will pass.

Ken nods, and walks over to the couch, slumping down with a cigarette already in his hand. Yukihiro slowly joins him, grabbing his bag of chips to munch on. Ken and Yukihiro talk easily, still discussing the music even when Tetsu’s declared a break.

My stomach’s been bothering me all day, but I thought it was just a reaction to the pain medicine I’ve been taking-- for headaches. The others just smile and joke patiently, telling me that I’m worse than a woman when it comes to pain. I don’t know what to say to that.

Fifteen minutes later, we’re practicing again. I stumble through the notes, not even trying to sing words, just syllables. My performance is lacking, and I know it, but I can’t concentrate. I sing the same song again and again, more times than I can count. 

The world is a dream, an image of words I’ve penned down from a moment now gone. I can’t remember the feeling now. I step away from the mike a second time, swaying on my feet. The room is spinning. Are we on the refrain, or is this the end of the song? I search for words that just won’t come, unable to think past the haze of pain. 

My thoughts are obscure, slow and muddied. I realize I’m on the floor, and that I’m cold—shivering. But my stomach hurts too much for me to make sense of this. I feel like I’m going to be sick, but more than that, I feel this intense pain in my abdomen, growing steadily stronger.

I don’t understand why it hurts this much. I can’t understand the voices around me, can’t focus my eyes on the figures shaking my shoulder. 

“Fuck. Don’t shake me,” I gasp, and clutch at my stomach.

“Hyde, Hyde! Can you hear me? What’s wrong?” 

I feel someone rubbing my back, and hands pushing, trying to get me to sit up. 

But I can’t sit up right now. It hurts too fucking much to move. I look up from the ground and realize that everyone is surrounding me. 

Where did the poetry go?

“Shit man, I know you said your stomach was upset, but shit! If it’s this bad, you need to go to the hospital,” Ken says around a cigarette. He frowns and runs a hand through his hair. “Tetsu, look at him. He needs a doctor.”

“Hyde, Hyde listen.” Tetsu ignores everything Ken is saying, and just tilts my head back to look me in the eyes. “What did you take today? How many aspirin have you taken?”

I feel sick. My stomach lurches and I gasp, afraid that I’m going to lose it right there. “I don’t remember,” I moan, shuddering. “My stomach hurts, my stomach hurts, mystomachhurts. Why does it fucking hurt this much?”

“Hyde, did you take anything besides aspirin? You didn’t mix it with-- with some other drug, did you?”

“Tetsu, leave him the fuck alone. He needs a doctor!” Ken yells, and I moan. I stare at their feet “That’s it. If you won’t take him, I will.” Ken shuffles from foot to foot, anxious movements that look unnatural, when it’s Ken.

“Shouldn’t we call an ambulance?” Yukihiro asks, his voice uncertain and a little afraid. “I mean, he looks really bad.”

“Hyde, what do you want to do?” Ken asks me, voice serious but with an urgency that I can’t remember hearing before. “Do you want an ambulance?”

I close my eyes, trying to think past the pain. There’s a dull rushing noise behind my ears, the sound of a flowing river, just in my head. “No,” I lick my dry lips. “No. Help me up?” I plead, voice shaking, weak and soft as a child’s.

“Upsy daisy,” Ken grins, but the expression is strangely serious-- as out of place as a tree in the desert. He puts one hand on my back and one hand on my arm to haul me up.

I step backwards and then stagger forward; my sense of balance is shot to hell. I can’t stand up straight-- can’t stand at all without someone helping me. I bend over-- unable or unwilling-- to straighten out.

“Are you sure this is okay?” Yukihiro asks, and his quiet voice is hesitant. He doesn’t look at me, though-- he’s looking at Tetsu. “He can barely walk…”

“No ambulance,” I bark. I don’t want anyone getting wind of this, not even the staff, and especially not some curious bystander on the street. I lurch from foot to foot unsteadily, tugging Ken towards the door. “I don’t want any press on this.”

The sound-proof studio is just one of several in the building, and we walk out at an aggravatingly slow pace. I stumble, and slump into Ken’s hands. “Just a minute,” I grunt, clenching my teeth. I bend down, and land into the least painful position-- hugging my knees, head down as I just breathe.

I can hardly trust my own mind, I can hardly think or speak-- it hurts to be. To do anything more is completely out...

But Tetsu, dedicated, stubborn Tetsu, he puts his cold hands beneath my collar, massaging my neck gently. As though it might get my attention, as if I might suddenly wish to move. “Come on, Hyde, you need to get up...” he must have gestured to Ken.

Ken’s strong arms are beneath me, lurching me to my feet. “Hold yourself steady...”

Yukihiro is soft in the background. “...whose car--?”

I groan. “No keys...” I left them upstairs.

To the side, Tetsu shuffles around his pockets. “I’ve got mine,” he gestures vaguely. “This way.”

We make our way to Tetsu’s car like that, Ken half-carries me down the stairs, and Tetsu lingers close. We leave the building quietly, without event.

At long last, I curl into the front seat, though I’m unwilling to even put a seatbelt on. I can’t stand anything touching my stomach right now. I close my eyes and try to relax. “So,” I gasp, “what do you--” I breathe in sharply as we go over a speed bump, the pain is startling. “--think of the lyrics?” At their incredulous expressions, I try to explain. “It helps…to talk.” I make a small noise, a little high-pitched moan. “I don’t want to think about this…”

There’s a brave effort to keep my mind on the here-and-now, as Ken Tetsu and Yuki speak in a cluttered mess of words and agreement about anything that came to mind. It helped, sometimes.

The minutes stretched on. 

Slowly, their words filter out, and I am left-- alone-- with everyone close by. My mind is a confused mix of symphonic sounds and lyrical darkness, pure nothing as the blackness edges in on my eyes. Everything spins to a halt.

 

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

“Hyde, wake up a little,” a firm hand shakes my shoulder. “We’re here.”

I squint up at the person shaking me to find Yukihiro staring at me. “Don’t shake me, Yuki,” I grumble, and half-heartedly pull myself into a sitting position. 

I look around in the mid-afternoon light, and discover that we’re stalled in front of the E.R. Tetsu’s out of the driver’s seat, carefully maneuvering Yuki to the driver’s seat. “Yukihiro,” he says, gravity weighing down his voice. “Please take care of this,” and he and ken reach onto the passenger seat for me. They pull my weight into their arms, relying on me to put my feet in the right place. Miraculously, my legs don’t break-- but my stomach is not so corporative. 

“Fuck!” I yell as I stumble out the door. The pain in my stomach is so intense, I can barely think past the pain. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” I lurch forward, unwilling to walk any farther. “My stomach hurts, oh fuck,” I bite my lip, and try not to collapse on the street.

Ken leaves me to Tetsu, who is doing something to my neck again, and murmuring an indistinct nothing in my ear. Ken hails down a nurse and announces that he’s taking the wheelchair behind them. 

“Okay, I know you’re not gonna like this,” and I feel as though my back is breaking, and then there’s nothing, but a strange hallow feeling throughout my body. Ken hauls my sorry ass up, and sits me in the chair, and pushes me into the ER.

I stare ahead in a daze, completely exhausted. I let myself be wheeled to the emergency room without another word. The ER isn’t crowded at this time of day, but it’s not empty, either. There’s an old man sitting in a chair near me, and a young woman sniffling in a corner. The secretary in front of a computer motions us over, and begins to ask a series of questions.

I let Tetsu and Ken field the questions, though they are reluctant to answer the secretary’s questions-- particularly the questions pertaining to my name and age. 

“Can’t we just see a doctor?” Tetsu wants to know. “A private doctor?”

“Sir, we need all of the information you can give us.” The secretary replies, and asks for my personal information. She’s calm, and her voice is achingly professional. If she recognizes me, she doesn’t let on.

I answer the secretary’s questions myself, breathless. “Takarai Hideto.” Tetsu restlessly paces a few steps, and Ken watches me intently. Strangely, I’m just exhausted now…the pain I felt earlier just went away, like someone just flipped a switch. I find myself unsure, shaken, but relatively fine.

“And what hurts?” the secretary-- or is she a nurse?-- asks, fingers poised over the keyboard. “Mr. Takarai?”

“Abdominal pain,” I say slowly. As though the admission will bring back the-- whatever it was.

“And what would you rate that pain on a scale of zero to ten, zero being no pain, and ten being the worst pain you’ve ever felt.” She’s terse, a little sympathetic, but this is mostly just business to her.

I hesitate, unsure of what to say. Quite suddenly I find myself without pain, after coming all the way to the ER. “Ah…maybe a two.” I feel foolish even as I say it.

“Bull shit,” Ken snaps, and takes a deep breath, clearly exasperated. “You were fucking screaming with pain. Don’t you think it’s a little higher than that?”

What does he know? “Actually, I feel better now.” I say defensively. “Just damn tired.”

The secretary looks at me, uncertain. “And does your family have a history of--” her voice is drowned out by Ken.

Ken is the picture of an irritable guardian. Strange. I always thought Tetsu was more suited towards that role...“Hyde, this is not normal. You’re still going to see a doctor,” He shakes his finger at me, actually looking angry at me for not being in pain. Some friend. 

I roll my eyes, and stare at a spot on the wall. A few minutes later, I’m seated in the waiting room. Rock star or no, I still have to wait, and even when I’m being wheeled into the nurse’s questioning booth, an older man complaining of chest pain comes in, and he gets to be questioned first. Because “chest pain trumps surgical pain any day.” What the hell do they mean surgical by pain, anyways?

My name is called, and I’m put in a semi-private corner of the ER to be questioned by the nurse.  
The nurse puts a cuff on my arm, a strange device on my finger, and a thermometer in my ear. I’m too tired to think about what she’s doing. 

“Slight fever,” she pronounces, and writes it on her clipboard.

I neglect to mention that my average temperature usually runs low. I half-heartedly answer all her questions, thinking instead about how strange this sudden lack of pain is. I feel embarrassed for having made such a big scene, for agreeing to come to the hospital at all. I feel fine now. I wish I had just waited the pain out.

Another nurse wheels me down to the hall a little ways, still in the ER, and helps me into the bed. There aren’t any fancy heart-monitors like on bad television dramas, and no mask is drawn over my mouth. Outside there is a buzz of professional walking to and from beds, but no one is yelling instructions, no one even raises their voice. The reality is somehow much colder, more lifeless. 

The nurse politely pulls the curtains around so that I’m given the illusion of privacy. Tetsu and Ken stand awkwardly, nervous and irritable. They have every reason to be disgruntled—with their vocalist making a scene, and then spontaneously recovering. 

They probably think I’m on drugs.

That thought spurs unwanted memories of Sakura, and the scandal that nearly led to our band’s breakup. I wouldn’t do drugs after seeing what happens to people who get caught. Not after that. 

“Tetsu...” I begin. Cough. “Ken.” I smile at them, and turn my gaze on the remaining member of L’Arc. “Yuki...” it’s a small thing, but there’s a sort of love within me that opens my mouth and guides my eyes. “I just--”

But before the words can come out, a harried, male nurse comes in. He smiles tersely at me, but I’m in no mood to play polite games. 

I glare at him until he speaks. 

He’s a big guy, built for the square-cut shirt, for the long and formless legs of his uniform. I wonder briefly why he’s here-- I’d always thought nurses were kind, caring people with strong stomachs. This man, I thought, might be better suited for grave digging. His voice is no more compassionate than I remember my gym teacher’s was. “I need to take a few samples, and get you started on some fluids,” he says dryly, pulling on a fresh pair of gloves. At my blank stare, he explains. “We need a urine sample, and a blood sample.” This guy is not earning any “good-care” points. 

I blanch, and give the nurse a look. I decide that, no, I really don’t like him. “Er, could you at least step outside?” Where my voice would ordinarily be frosty, I sound sleepy. I hate how meek I sound. Damn, what am I-- in middle school again?

The nurse gives a curt nod, and heads out the door. Tetsu motions for Ken and Yukihiro to follow, and I’m left alone with the cup. I stare at it, and notice the instructions printed thereon. How quaint.

A few minutes later, I open the curtain and grudgingly let the nurse back in. I flop down on the bed, watching. 

The nurse puts my “sample” into a plastic bag, and then changes gloves again. He seemed just as businesslike as anyone else, but somehow even this managed to annoy me.

I scowl at him, watching from my perch. Everything this guy does pisses me off. 

His face is carefully blank. I begin to wonder if the resentment is mutual. “Which arm would you prefer?” He asks, readying a needle attached to a tube and vial. 

“Doesn’t matter,” I say, thinking back to a time when a nurse stuck me. I can’t remember what I even had the test done for, only that the nurse had trouble. “It doesn’t matter, so long as you get what you need.” And I don’t get poked as much. 

I hold my hand to his, and the nurse secures a plastic band to my upper-arm, just above my elbow, and he asks me to open and close my fists. I watch the nurse jab the needle into my arm, but he can’t continue. He pulls the needle out, and searches for another vein. He does this two more times.

Unnerved or frustrated, he withdraws his eyes from me, staring at the needle instead. “You have tiny veins,” he says, and prepares another needle. “Hold still.” He says, but he doesn’t try again. Instead, he leaves to get another nurse to try and start the IV.

A smaller, “child-sized” needle and two more pokes later, the IV is started. I can only imagine what my arms will look like tomorrow. Stark white, with dark bruises blossoming across the surface. I wonder, then, if there will be blood. 

The first nurse tapes wads of cotton to the puncture-wounds, and I find my arms cluttered with large bandages. Somehow, this bothers me more than the blood would. He hangs an IV bag onto a pole, and I close my eyes. “We have you down for a CAT scan, Mr. Takarai, and after that, the doctor will talk to you.” The nurse says, and backs out. He retreats a few paces, closes the curtain. He seems to have forgotten that I’m here, and over the low buzz of conversation and mechanical noise, I hear him stop.

“...must be overreacting, you know the type...” his voice is incredulous, tight and tired. 

I remember, then, a quiet conversation with Tetsu about transferring hospitals. Going to the one where my wife and I usually stop in, but the weather’s bad, and the beds are full there. I’m stuck here for at least a day, they said. Possibly the weekend. Perhaps this is why I’m still in the ER. 

“I can’t believe there’s much wrong with the man.”

Yuki and Ken say nothing, but Tetsu moves out of the enclosed space, his composure tight and serious-- a face I’m used to seeing only with work. 

But with that ominous, hurtful phrase, I doze in and out of sleep. It doesn’t matter now, that it’s only mid-afternoon. My dreams are molded of strange, harsh shapes, and the lines draw together to form a cloud of maddening intensity. But I do not really sleep.

I open my eyes, suddenly, and wonder how much time has passed. “It’s lonely here...” I say aloud, half to myself. 

Ken sighs, and moves the only chair closer to the bed. “Yeah.” He agrees. 

Their talk has mostly been with cell phones, canceling plans. I’ve always been the quiet one of the group, but right now, it seems like we’ve all caught the somberness in the air. Nothing except the precise, cold business is spoken of, here. There’s some discussion of who to tell (my wife) and who not to tell (pretty much everyone else). 

I don’t want to talk to Megumi right now, and surprisingly Tetsu agrees with me. “She’s sight-seeing with her parents now, right? It’d be best just to let her spend some time with her family and contact her when you’re certain of the…diagnosis.” He says the last word carefully, like he’s avoiding something. 

I nod dumbly, trying to decode that word. Diagnosis. The word itself sounds formidable, cold. It sounds like something you’d see in a textbook, not something your friend brings up in conversation. Except that this conversation can’t be normal-- not when we’re in a hospital.

But this is where I am, for now. I close my eyes, and wish for sleep.

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

The nurses don’t come and get me for a CAT scan anytime soon. Another hour passes of me dozing on the bed, and my band mates taking turns at my bedside. Finally, a different nurse opens the curtain. “Have they already done the CAT scan, Mr. Takarai?” she asks briskly, approaching my bed.

“No,” I snap, gritting my teeth. “Still waiting.” Why the hell do I have to wait so long? I find myself feeling foolish then—perhaps there are more pitiful cases in the ward. Grumpily, I try to have some compassion,. Mostly, my head just hurts. There are plenty of people worse off than me. I sigh. 

The nurse comes over to my bed just the same, like I haven’t said anything rude. She hooks an IV bag to my bed, and hits some combination of buttons on the stand to make it stop beeping. I wonder what she’s giving me, some gentle poison to make me feel better, or just water? I watch as she does something to the bed to make it roll, and starts pushing me towards the hall. I guess the CAT scan is the next stop.

I blink dumbly, and glance at the others. They stare after me tiredly. I can only imagine what they’re thinking, with me being dragged off for something as serious as a CAT scan. What are the things used for again? Don’t people with head injuries go for those? So why am I being wheeled off for one? I wish somebody would explain what all this is about.

Rolling down the hall is surreal, like I’m rolling over the ocean, lost at sea. The sensation of abandonment is strong enough to make me curl into myself, trying to escape from unnamed emotions. I let my hair obscure my face, and my thoughts drift.

The motion reminds me of being a child on a swing set, rhythmically swaying to and fro. The sensation leaves me dizzy, trying to catch hold of my thoughts. I can’t concentrate on anything. I’m drained and leaden, slow to react even to the painfully bright lights.

A voice jostles me out of my reflection, a mellow, full voice used to being heard and obeyed. “All right, if you could move onto this cushion,” the nurse instructs, unhooking my IV. This nurse is a middle aged woman with a crisp uniform. She speaks slowly and calmly, though she smiles often. 

I reluctantly climb off the bed, my hands looking pale and white knuckled even to me, as I pull myself onto the bed. I begin to shiver as soon as I’m up, like a child caught in the cold. 

The nurse smiles reassuringly, and covers me with a warm blanket. She seems very accustomed to seeing and helping anyone with need.

I sigh, and feel my eyes flutter as I begin to relax. “Thank you,” I murmur. I wish, then, that I could be more welcoming of the young woman. That my words could come more easily…more beautifully. 

The nurse nods, and begins to explain the procedure. “I’m giving you a contrast agent now, so that we can see what’s going on inside.” She pats my arm as she talks, and looks at the center of my face, rather than my eyes. I find her actions and words vaguely comforting, like the actions of a trusted teacher. “You may feel warm, or like you need to use the restroom, but that’s just the medicine, okay?” Her wrinkled fingers prepare the IV even as she talks, and I flinch away. 

“That stings,” I grunt. Really, I feels like the needle is burning, accented with a sharp, stabbing pain. 

The nurse clicks her tongue. She seems disapproving, and for a moment, I wonder what she’d say of the other nurses. “Morishita, his IV blew,” she says. “Well, we’ll just start another one.” She says apologetically. Her eyes scan my cotton-wad covered arms. “And it looks like you’ve been stuck more than a few times tonight, poor thing.” Her gentle words remind me of my elementary teacher, a caring, kind woman.

Another nurse comes in, with another needle. I watch them “stick” my arm, and re-tape the tubing. This nurse finds a vein right away, thankfully. She is young, and her hair is cropped short around her face. She seems quite the professional to my eyes.

“The recording will say some instructions-- to take a deep breath and hold it, that sort of thing. Don’t open your eyes while we’re doing the test, and try not to move.” The nurse warns, and takes several short steps into the other room. 

She speaks over the intercom. “We can see and hear you from over here, so if you need to stop, just say something.” Her voice disappears altogether as the procedure begins.

I’m lost in a haze of light gray as the machine whirls loudly, and something begins to move. The dull roar of the machine fills the air, drawing complex maps in my mind’s eyes, bold and erratic lines dancing across my eyelids. I hold my breath when told to. The whole process takes longer than I expected, and I submit to the test several times.

As the machine nosily rotates around me, I wonder at my body’s strange behavior. What’s wrong with me? The thought hands in the air, a ghost of a claim when the machines retreat to their hideaway at long last.

“The doctor will discuss the results with you later this evening, as soon as he gets a chance to look at the scans.” She smiles primly, and pats me on the shoulder.

The younger nurse helps me off the table, and onto the stretcher. My stomach clenches uncomfortably the entire ride back to the ER. My mind is a jumble, my thoughts rattling around like so many coins in a jar. I breathe deep, calming breaths, blaming an over-active imagination on the wasted afternoon. It won’t be long now-- soon they’ll be telling me I’m overreacting, and they’ll send me home. I can’t bring myself to think that something could actually be wrong with me. 

I smile weakly at Yukihiro, and he nods back at me. I want to sink into the pillow, to just close my eyes and have everything done. I can barely remember the pain that brought me here-- there’s just an uncomfortable weight in my gut, and lingering exhaustion.

Yukihiro waits for the nurse to leave before speaking. “So, how’d it go? Did they find anything out?” He mumbles the question, his posture far too comfortable for such an enclosing atmosphere. 

“I don’t know...they said a doctor-- or was it a radiologist?” I wrinkle my nose, trying to remember what the nurse said. I almost forget to finish my sentence, but Yukihiro gets my attention with a small cough. I could have stayed quiet for ages, and I’d never realize, I’m crashing that fast. “They’re supposed to read the results in a little while.” I shrug sleepily. “We’ll be here a little longer, I guess.” 

I try to disappear into my pillow, wrestling with my conflicting thoughts. I can’t figure out what to be thinking, “I’m over reacting” or “What the hell is wrong with me?” I can’t remember what I felt like before today, can’t remember if it started out normal. Have I been having abdominal pain for a while, or just today? Did I miss some important sign, or is this really as sudden as it feels?

I catch my breath, and look at the light coming over the curtain. I settle into the mindless hum of a song yet unwritten, and wait.

Just wait.

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

In my bed, I feel almost weightless. My arm is so cold, and this is what prevents me from sleeping long. Nevertheless, I slip in and out of consciousness, dreaming of Megumi and Hinata away on their trip. An hour after the CAT scan, Yukihiro is napping in a chair, and Tetsu taps my shoulder. 

His cold hands brush my cheek subtly. There’s a tension in his touch that might be called by another word. “Hey, Hyde, the doctor’s here,” he whispers urgently. “Wake up.” His voice is gentle.

That moment between waking and dreaming, I find myself out of sorts. “Mmm?” I mumble, and push myself up, squinting in the bright hospital lights. “Good morning,” I mumble, completely forgetting what time it is. The curtained-off space seems so very still, despite the noise from outside. It’s all very foreign to me then, without any of the usual comforts.

My eyes then wander to a figure to the side, a man dressed in creams and whites. His disposition seems that of a serious, determined sort, and there’s something very authoritative about his stare from behind wire-rimmed glasses. He clears his throat, and offers a tiny, indifferent nod. His intelligent gaze holds mine, and then the man proceeds to speak in a surprisingly quiet voice.

“Well, Mr. Takarai, your hormone levels indicate a pancreas flare up, what’s referred to as pancreatitis,” the doctor begins, leaning on his heels. “We’d like to admit you for the night so we can continue your IV fluids. I’ve scheduled an ultrasound for tomorrow morning to check for the most common cause of pancreatitis -- gallstones.” He says this all very matter-of-factly, rushing through the sentences before I’ve really understood what he’s saying. He puts one hand on his brow, as though to wipe way unseen perspiration.

I want to ask him to say it again, to explain to me how he figured this out. I mean, I’ve convinced myself that it was a mistake to even come here. The doctor, however, doesn’t ask if I understand, or even look up from the chart.

I feel, then, rather insignificant. Alone, but only one of many suffering people. The thought is not pleasant. Silence washes over us like early morning light.

“There is no medication for pancreatitis. We just need to give your pancreas a break.” He looks up, and finally meets my confused expression. “That means, Mr. Takarai, you can’t have anything to eat or drink until you’re back to normal.” He pauses, and adds, “We’ll keep you on IV fluids, of course,” as an afterthought. 

He’s taking this entirely too lightly. “Wait, wait,” I cut in. I lick my lips, and try to gather my thoughts. “No food or water? Pancreatitis? Why do I have pancreatitis?” I can’t follow what the doctor is saying; I’m so confused and exhausted at this point. It seems as though I’ve left part of me at the threshold of the dream world. “You want to admit me? But I feel fine!” I can’t stay here…not in this place.

“Your electrolyte levels are low, and your amylase and lipase are extremely elevated, Mr. Takarai. We can’t release you until it goes back down to normal levels.” The old says in earnest, with the expression of a parent who will not abide by their child getting their way. 

The silence is very brief. “And how long will that take?” Tetsu asks, his voice and manner polite. I can see, though, the fain lines around his mouth. Is it the message or the messenger that irks him?

The doctor speaks again with the same cool indifference. “Perhaps a few days of IV fluids. Until Friday, at the very least.” The doctor shuffles, as if making ready to leave. Is he so very busy? Or so eager to rid himself of me?

I stare at the doctor, dumfounded. No food or water for three days? It sounds unbelievable. I’ve never been one for diets…and this seems so very extreme…but it is a doctor telling me this. “But I’ll be fine after that?”

His voice is calm, if monotonous. “We’ll know more in the morning, with further tests. The ultrasound for the morning, and I’d also like to test how well your liver is functioning.” He gives me a stern look, as though he’s certain that I’m withholding some dire piece of information.

“My liver?” My voice rises in pitch, and I all but fall back into the bed. I know longer feel weightless, like a spirit with no body. I feel heavy, so heavy I might drown.

“Yes, Mr. Takarai. We need to go over all the possible causes. Are you a heavy drinker, Mr. Takarai?” 

“What? No! I don’t drink that much.” I stutter. My wit has left me, my devil’s tongue or poet’s eye. I feel so vulnerable, trapped in this bed.

“About how many drinks would you say you have a week?” He looks at me inquisitively, but even as he tries to appear nonjudgmental, his look irritates me.

“Just a few,” I say guarded. “After dinner or with friends.” I find myself shaking my head, trying to wrap my mind around this concept. “I don’t get roaring drunk every week, if that’s what you mean.”

“I see,” the doctor states, and scribbles something more on the paper. “If you’ll excuse me,” the doctor turns away, “a nurse will come and help you to your room as soon as one is available.” And just like that, the doctor walks out. His lab-coat woshes as he leaves. On another man, the motion might be eloquent, but here, it’s only clumsy.

I sigh loudly, and run my fingers through my hair. For a while, we say nothing, as I quietly sort through my thoughts. I didn’t overdose on pain pills, and apparently I’m not as “fine” as I feel. Wow. Shouldn’t I feel more concerned? Or worried? Anything but this cold numbness would be welcome-- it just doesn’t feel like this is happening. Like I’m still lost in a half-truth dream.

The others stare in the doctor’s wake, looking surprised and uneasy by the doctor’s words. Ken quirks a smile at me, but it falters. His face could be molded of wax, the way it holds no lasting emotion. Hot, falling wax. “Damn, Hyde, how much have you been drinking!” 

The words were meant in a different way, they must have been, but all I catch is the accusation.

I shoot a glare at Ken, but I can’t tell if he’s joking or not. I say nothing, unwilling to betray my thoughts. 

Tetsu is not so guarded. His disappointment is readably recognizable, though I can’t tell who he’s disappointed in. His voice cuts, “Ken, don’t say thinks like that.” Tetsu groans, sounding weary. He rubs his eyes and leans into his chair, looking almost as exhausted as I feel. Is he feeling guilty?

Around me, my band mates shift, and look discretely at their watches. Ken shakes Yukihiro’s shoulder until Yuki opens his eyes. “Hyde has pancreatitis, and they want to admit him,” he tells our drummer.

Yuki, for his part, just nods and rubs his eyes. And so the waiting begins again. 

I want to fall back asleep, but my mind is going too fast. “What’s the pancreas do?” I wonder aloud.

“No idea, man,” Ken chuckles.

Yukihiro shrugs and Tetsu shakes his head.

I give a sigh, and close my eyes, expecting a nurse to come in at any second now to take me up to a room. Lights dance behind my eyes, and I drift into a half slumber, disturbing images of corpses dancing behind my eyes.

Finally, someone speaks up. “…it’s been a long day…”It’s Yuki, looking for a moment as though he’ll sink right through the chair and into the floor. But he offers a tiny smile and a small, worried nod. “…do you think…how long until you get a room? Will they send us away before then…?”

Tetsu sighs. I don’t think I’ve seen him this exhausted in years. “I don’t know.” His voice is lackluster, slow and without feeling. He shakes his head and covers his forehead with those chilly fingers. Massaging away a formidable headache, I’m sure. Slowly, his hand falls down his face, covering shadowed eyed. 

I don’t know what to say. I remain quiet, my mind working slowly, frigidly. 

Ken shrugs, slowly. “Ah. That might be a problem…” he stuffs his hands in his pockets and shuffles his feet. He slides a glance at Yuki and then at Tetsu.

Tetsu’s eyes remain closed. “I’m sure you’ll be alright, Hyde.” He turns to me, then, and all I can see are the dark circles ringing his eyes and the lack of color in his lips. His voice is soft, but he pushes on. “Everything will be just fine.”

I swallow hard, and nod. My head is spinning, and I feel overwhelmingly heartbroken. I’m hurting these people who’ve supported me, and I suddenly want them to feel better. “Thank you,” I say, slowly. Is it a minute or more that passes? My head spins. “I appreciate you being here.”

One by one, my band mates meet my gaze. Relief lingers quietly, right along their worry and exhaustion. They know what comes next.

“I think…” my voice breaks, and I clear throat. I don’t want to be alone here. “I think I’ll sleep until then.” I pause. “Please, go get something to eat. Get some rest. I’ll be fine for a while,” and my voice lingers in the stale air.

There is silence, and Ken quietly comes forward. He places one hand on my shoulders, awkwardly before nodding tightly. “Jya,” his voice is between a grumble and yawn. “See you.” He smiles tightly. “Take care of yourself…don’t get into trouble.” His lips quirk.

Yukihiro nods quietly, too. And asks, “Do you want me to bring you a book? Some music?” Very thoughtful, and yet there is no small smile, except in his eyes. 

I shake my head. “No, Yuki. I’ll be fine.”

Tetsu shakes his head, grimly. “Hyde.” He somehow makes my name an argument, a statement of profound exhaustion. “I’d like to stay.” He shoots an awkward, tense look at our friends. “You all go. I’ll watch over the transfer.”

Ken laughs then, low and quiet. “Okay, Tetsu.” He rolls his shoulders out, experimentally. “Really, trouble-maker. Be good.” And with that, he nods to the others, and quietly steps out. 

Yukihiro offers a small nod. “Bye.” And he too is gone.

Tetsu stays with me as I drift in and out of sleep, and I hear his quiet, firm voice when they finally come to move me to a bed. Excuses are made, but Tetsu makes no apologies. He’s relentless in informing the staff of my poor circulations of my tendency for silent stretches. He extracts promises of good will and strong intentions, and finally reminds them all to “Please respect his privacy.” 

I say nothing.

The nurse quietly orders Tetsu out of the room in order to ask me dozens of routine medical history questions. She first explains it as a customary course of action for all newly admitted patients, most notably, “Do you feel comfortable at home, or do you believe yourself to be unsafe?” and “If you find yourself forgetting things at home…” 

After I answer the borderline ridiculous questions, Tetsu comes in to sit awkwardly in a stiff hospital chair. He’s blurry to my tired eyes. I catch him stretching his eyelids and rubbing his temples. 

“Tetsu,” I chide gently. “Go home.”

He laughs, tiredly. “Yeah,” He agrees. “Yeah…” He knocks my hand-- the one not attached to machinery-- affectionately, carefully. “I’ll call you when I get home.”

I nod, tired despite all my sleep. “Okay,” I can hardly keep my eyes open. My throat feels dry.

“Take care,” he bids.

“You too.”

“Don’t let the nurses talk about you, Hyde…” He murmurs, half joking, half serious. His eyes seem tired as he pulls his jacket closed. “Sleep well…”

I nod him away, my eyes closing briefly.

When I open them again, he’s gone. The room is empty except for me. In the quiet-- punctuated only by the mechanical whhr of the IV-- my thoughts finally drift…the way your thoughts go when you’re finally alone. Scared. Anxious. Frustrated. 

I wonder, then. What in hell am I going to tell Megumi?  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter...a visit from Gackt


	2. pressing moments (2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This time: Hyde gives Gackt a call...and a visit ensues...
> 
> Warnings: some mild cursing... 
> 
> Disclaimers apply. For full disclaimer, see Chapter One, please.

 

 _pressing moments.  
_ by **smilingcrescent**

* * *

  
  
I lie quietly in bed, thinking of my wife, and of the hospital procedures. The ultra-sound was rather uneventful, and so were the morning lab-tests. The doctor won’t talk to me until later. Nurses come in and out of my room periodically, as they have throughout the night—waking me up when I’ve just drifted to sleep. No one’s called, an no one’s come to visit. I keep turning the events over in my mind, the way a baker kneads bread.  
  
I asked the nurse earlier if I couldn’t stay home and starve myself. She scolded me, and told me, “People can die from pancreatitis. You’re staying here so that we’ll know right away if there are any complications.” And that was that.  
  
So I’m cooped up in some little corner of the hospital, thinking my thoughts.  
  
If I tell Megumi even half of what that arrogant doctor told me, she’ll cut the trip short, and likely not leave my bedside. On the other hand, if I kept something like this from her-- I can only imagine the consequences. My stomach flips uncomfortably; I can’t keep quiet about this…but what do I tell her? What do I say?  
  
Suddenly, I’m overwhelmed with the desire to _talk_ to someone, so I can be less alone in this godforsaken place. I wish, then, that I hadn’t sent everyone away yesterday. I reach over, grasping blindly at the things on the nightstand by my bed. My hands find my cell phone, and I stare at it. I flip it open and browse through a list of names-- names that call dozens of faces to mind, some friends I’ve known for ages, others I can’t recall.  
  
My eyes stop on one name: G A C K T.  
  
I dial his number without even realizing it.  
  
I listen to the dull ringing tone, clenching my bedcovers absent-mindedly. There’s a soft click when Gackt picks up. My breath falters and a wave of anxiety overcomes me.  
  
“Hello?” Gackt murmurs, his voice low and smooth. He radiates a serene calm, as if he were just relaxing in a beautiful garden. In reality, I know that he’s probably in the middle of some hectic schedule. I can imagine a cool, delicately interested smile adorning his face.  
  
The silence stretches on. “Hyde, is that you?” he asks, after I say nothing for too long.  
  
I cough, and try to stop my hand from shaking. “Hello, Ga-chan. I hope I’m not interrupting anything…” I clench the blankets again, frustrated at the airy, confused quality of my voice. This whole situation makes it difficult to talk-- I don’t take to being an invalid well, but it’s hard to forget. I stare down at the IV in my arm accusingly, like it’s the one thing that’s keeping me from talking normally.  
  
“It’s no matter,” Gackt assures me, though I hear voices in the background. “We haven’t spoken in too long. Go on,” he urges. Is he sitting, with those long legs artistically crossed, or is he leaning against a wall, ready to walk on? I wish I was talking to him face to face, not making a call from a hospital bed.  
  
My mouth moves without my realizing it. “Well, um, I’m kind of in the hospital and I…” I take a faltering breath. “I needed someone to talk to,” I finish lamely.  
  
A slow, painful moment passes as Gackt processes this. “Hospital?” Gackt queries, alarm coloring his voice. I hear a faint ‘excuse me’ uttered to someone on his end. He must have been standing after all. He walks down the tiled space, and I hear the sound of his shoes padding on the floor.  
  
“I’m all right,” I hasten to say. “Really, it’s nothing important.” Anything to cover the god-awful silence.  
  
“So, what’s wrong?” Gackt asks slowly, as though thinking over each syllable.  
  
I look up to the windowless wall, wishing for some portal to hold my attention. The words come easily…almost too easily for my liking. “Ah, pancreatitis, and something about testing my liver.”  
  
I wonder, then what he sees. If it’s something beautiful enough to distract him from our conversation. I wonder what he thinks of me calling him now, when I haven’t called him in weeks-- we haven’t seen each other face to face in even longer. “Your liver? That sounds bad,” Gackt sounds reflective rather than concerned. “What medicines do they have you on?”  
  
I’m not sure what to tell him, not sure I understand enough to explain. “Ah, an IV with potassium in it...and IV nutrition for a few days.” I rub my eyes and make a face, forgetting Gackt can’t see me. “They won’t let me eat.”  
  
“Oh?” Gackt says slowly. “But you’re feeling all right?” he asks with that low, silky voice.  
  
If he keeps talking to me, I get the feeling I _will_ be. Despite our busy-- and often conflicting-- schedules, it’s still good to talk to a good friend. I’m relieved not to be pressed by _circumstances_ or _relationships_ to lie. And so I settle for the truth. “I…feel pretty crappy, actually. You’re the first person I’ve called… I can’t think of what to tell my wife.”  
  
I stare at the cream-colored walls, a half step away from white. It seems as though the world has stopped and started, like my eyes have turned to crystalline orbs lying still and cold within my head. I thought (once) that nothing could come between my wife and I. This day is so long, so cold. I try to explain, but I can’t find the words. Instead, I blurt something completely irrelevant. “She’s on a trip right now and a call like that would worry her. She might come back early.” I sigh.  
  
He waits a moment before offering, “Pretend that I’m her.” His voice is completely level. “You’ll find the right words.”  
  
“What?” I bark back a laugh. “Why should I--”  
  
He laughs, a breath of amusement and mirth on his voice. “For practice, of course. You practice what you’ll say to your wife, and I’ll tell you what I think.” As though it’s the most natural thing in the world.  
  
“Oh.” I say, smiling a little. “Um…this is a little strange,” I laugh breathlessly.  
  
Without waiting for me to agree, he launches into the role, “Darling, how are you?” Gackt asks smoothly, as though he really is my significant other. “How have you been doing?” His voice is politely interested yet affectionate.  
  
I laugh, soundlessly, but even still, a wave of uncertainty overcomes me. But Gackt awaits my reply, so I speak. “Yes, I’ve been busy at the studio. I’ve barely left…”  
  
“Hyde, you’re supposed to tell her that you’re in the hospital, not talk about work.” Gackt drawls. He sounds amused, and vaguely chiding. “Oh, and tell her not to worry, and that you love her.”  
  
This, from the man who’s divorced. I snort, and roll my eyes. “Right.”  
  
“So, we’ll try again. How have you been?”  
  
But still, does Gackt understand? How difficult it is to tell her something like this? He doesn’t have a wife, or a serious lover-- how could he understand?  
  
But Gackt knows more than most what it means to be different. He knows what it’s like to be unable to communicate with “normal” people, to feel alienated from the mainstream. And so, I try again.  
  
The words come easier now. “Well, I was busy but now I’m not…I’m in the hospital with pancreatitis.”  
  
Gackt makes a disapproving noise. “You’ll scare the poor girl to death. Try giving her the news a little more gently.” I can imagine him, tapping a finger to his forehead, or twisting his lips into a small but powerful frown.  
  
I swallow, and look to the wall. “Gackt, really…I don’t _know_ what to say. I can’t think of a gentle way to say, ‘honey, my pancreas flared up, and I’m stuck in the hospital. It probably has something to do with my liver-- alcohol poisoning or something.’”  
  
He’s quiet for a moment. “Don’t say that.” He pauses, and resumes very slowly, as though he’s voicing what he just now thought of. “Tell her that you miss her, and that you’re having a few gastrointestinal problems right now, but it should be better before she gets back home.”  
  
“Easy for you to say,” I mutter under my breath, and pull my knees up to my chin. I have the sudden sensation of floating, like my mind is drifting away from my body. I blink rapidly several times, and feel my fingers lose their grip.  
  
“Hyde?” Gackt breaks the silence just as I drop the phone. “I’ll come over as soon as I finish up here. Where are you staying?”  
  
I remember, now, being a child. I wondered, then if the person on the other line was really the voice I heard, or if it was the phone itself speaking to me. Now, with my head spinning and body aching, I wonder again who it is I’m speaking with.  
  
Instead of saying this, I rejoin with, “So you can make fun of my attempts in person, eh?” I chuckle softly, but my voice sounds dark and tired.  
  
“Well, if you don’t want company, that’s all right. I’ll just drop by with a book and a movie.”  
  
“No, please,” my voice cracks. “You can come.” Hospitals are really lonely, scary places. “If you could stay a while, that’d be good.” I feel warmth creeping up my neck. I sound like a weepy kid…I rush into a stream of directions, and tell him to ask for Takarai Hideto. “And try not to attract too much attention.” I add, imagining a swarm of Gackt fans trailing after him.  
  
“Don’t worry, I won’t draw attention to myself.” Gackt promises in that deep, sultry voice. “See you soon.” He adds, and hangs up.  
  
I stare at the cell, reflective. I feel more relaxed, knowing that I’ll have company in a few hours. I scroll down the contact list once more, and prepare to talk with my wife. Some calls can only be put off for so long…whether or not you know what to say.

* * *

  
  
  
Gackt really is a strange visitor, no mater what the situation. He doesn’t talk much, but when he does I don’t know how to respond. He says such strange things.  
  
“Do you think they tune the lights to make the same note?” he asks.  
  
I’d been sleeping when Gackt came in-- dozing after a hard day of sitting in bed. However, Gackt didn’t rouse me. It was a nurse who took that privilege, waking me to jot down my stats. I was surprised to see him here; he must have been sitting in the chair for a while. After the ordinary salutations, he fell silent, leaving the two of us to our own worlds.  
  
He seems as imperturbable as a doll. It’s as if he’s been posed towards the heavens…but Gackt isn’t looking at the sky-- he’s looking at the hospital ceiling. At the fluorescent light there.  
  
“What?” I ask, grinning. I fold a corner of the page I’m reading.  
  
Gackt doesn’t look down, but speaks in the direction of the long, cylindrical bulbs. “The lights, they all make the same noise….D flat, I think.” He looks reflective. “I wonder if they change pitch as they get older…” He leans casually on his knee, and cocks his head inquisitively.  
  
Honestly, we’ve been sitting in silence, me reading the horror novel Gackt brought, and Gackt flipping through a pamphlet the hospital gave me. What could have spurned _that?_ I wonder how much attention he’s been giving the leaflet, considering that he’s talking about the _lights_ of all things.  
  
“No idea,” I grin. “Is the pamphlet that boring?” I set the book aside-- the plot isn’t picking up fast enough to keep my wandering attention. The other man in my room is more than enough entertainment, when he’s actually talking.  
  
“It’s enlightening,” he proclaims, and carefully folds the pamphlet. “You have the right-- the responsibility, it says, to know what medications you’re taking, and why.” He says the words slowly and clearly, as though tasting them. I wonder if he ever had to practice talking like that… “Did you know that?”  
  
I shrug. “There aren’t any medicines to help with pancreatitus.” I point out. I guess it makes sense that the doctors would want to know _all_ the medications their patients take. Side affects and bad interactions and all.  
  
“You don’t even take vitamins?” Gackt raises an eyebrow, like he doubts this very much. He taps the pamphlet on one arm almost silently, folding it between two fingers as he does so.  
  
I wrinkle my nose, thinking. “Well, I take vitamins…and stuff to help me sleep. But other than that, no meds.” Why am I even telling him this? I barely even discuss my medicines with Megumi, and _none_ of my band-mates. And yet Gackt-- who is barely more than an acquaintance, these days-- asks me plainly.  
  
Gackt makes an affirmative noise in the back of his throat, and leans farther into the hospital chair.  
  
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I laugh again, and pull up my blanket. This visit truly is strange. I’m getting a little cold, despite the two blankets I have. Thin, cotton blankets.  
  
“Nothing.” Gackt lifts his sunglasses to peer at me. “Have you called your wife yet, Hyde?” His eyes are startlingly blue, but it’s the _gaze_ that has the power.  
  
I nod, and don’t look away-- no matter how striking his stare. “Yeah…it went pretty much like I expected.” I grimace, remembering the conversation, but I hold his gaze. “Probably ruined the trip...but she’s coming home. Her plane arrives tomorrow morning.” My stomach settles uneasily, and the beginning of a headache pulses between my eyes.  
  
“Ah,” Gackt nods. “It’s good she’s coming, then.”  
  
“She _wanted_ to fly back this evening,” I say the words slowly, tasting them as he does, and feeling their pull. It’s fun, and entertaining. I think I can control how _tired_ I sound this way. Heartened, I go on, “But I talked her out of it…Hinata needs to keep to his schedule, and she needs time to pack.” I shake my head, amused. “Megumi always comes home with more than she can fit into her bags.” I grin, imagining it. “She’ll need to mail some things.”  
  
Gackt smiles. “Most women do,” and he sets the pamphlet on the table. “But will you be all right?” His brow furrows, and he slowly lifts his head, about to challenge something. “Spending the night alone in a hospital hardly sounds cheery.” He glances at the walls pointedly.  
  
“I’m a big boy, Ga-chan,” I say playfully. “I have my movies, novels and music to entertain me. I’ll be fine.”  
  
Gackt observes me placidly. “If you wish, I can stay here.”  
  
I almost laugh aloud, staring at him. I try to imagine the long-limbed singer sleeping in the stuffy hospital chair. Even though he reputably sleeps only four hours, I doubt he’d be _able_ to rest in that stiff, small, scratchy thing. “It’s kind of you to offer, Ga-chan,” I say slowly, trying to decide if he’s serious.  
  
“I’m surprised your band mates are willing to let you stay here alone,” Gackt rubs his chin, thoughtful. “I wouldn’t want any of my family to be left without company.” His blue eyes meet mine, austere in quality.  
  
“Oh.” I breathe. He thinks my friends should be here...I wonder if that’s a subtle rebuke. “I sent them away last night, actually. I thought they were stressed enough without my help.” I look over at him through a curtain of hair, and slowly trace his shape with my eyes. He’s cast in shadow, sitting as he is, and the values of his skin strike me as almost earthen.  
  
“You sent them away?” Gackt’s brows knit together. “But you said you wanted company.” He looks politely confused. Against the cream wall, he’s all life, full, rounded and fiery.  
  
I look at the crisp lines on his shirt, and follow the design there. Searching for words, losing myself in the complexity of a simple line.  
  
All within an instant. My mind returns to me, and I blurt-- “I didn’t--” faltering. “I wanted--” hmm. This isn’t going too well. “I _do_ want company.” I finally settle on. “I do. It’s just…I didn’t want to bother them,” my hands flop on the covers uselessly, like small birds. I feel suddenly delicate. The sensation is entirely unwelcome. “I mean, well, not that I wanted to bother _you_ , but.” I roll my eyes, frustrated. If my hands could fly, I’m sure they’d be torn from my body. The thought makes me smile a little. “Aaah. They didn’t call me so I didn’t call them.” I cross my arms defensively. My expression sours a little.  
  
“Ah.” Gackt says mildly, his expression perfectly blank, even though I’ve made a right fool of myself. He might as well be made of ice…like the snow sculptures I’d made as a kid, pressing harder and longer until they finally solidified.  
  
I smile at the thought, and wish abruptly for winter, even though I hate the cold. It’s all too cold, anyhow, and there’s no down comforter or soft body to keep me warm. “I think I’ll take a nap now,” I grumble, and turn over. I wish for a blindingly bright light, in which to lose myself.  
  
It’s better I turn to darkness.  
  
Mirroring my thoughts, Gackt urges, “Go ahead and turn the lights out,” His smile returns, gently curved and minute. “I may as well join you.” His eyes drift to the ceiling then, looking at the lights that _sing_ , according to him.  
  
Buzz, more like it.  
  
“Ha. You? Sleep?” I chuckle, fumbling with the button on the side of my bed that will control the light. “More like sit in complete darkness thinking morbid thoughts.” Saying so reminds me of my _own_ recent ponderings. Hospitals…I brush the thoughts away, and a lightweight feeling fills my chest.  
  
Gackt makes no reply, merely lifting an eyebrow elegantly. But he closes his eyes, and assumes a position akin to that of a yoga master-- something between comfortable and stretchy.  
  
I sigh, and settle further into my bed. Sleep comes easily, today. I’m in a pleasant mood, despite the dull ache in my abdomen. My previous unease leaves me, and the whole world falls open…my dreams will be soft, and wind filled. It’s a nice, easy thought.

* * *

  
  
  
Some hours later, I wake up to a ringing cell phone. I blink groggily, not used to my surroundings. Ah yes. I’m in the hospital. I thought myself alone in this damn place until Gackt hands me the phone. The world returns to me, then, in all its complicated memories.  
  
Gackt’s countenance is such that I expect him to impart some unforgettable wisdom, but he merely says, “You ought to put it on silence when you sleep,” his suggestion curves his lips to a gentle smile. He looks at me with those too-blue eyes, and I almost forget about the phone.  
  
I squint at him, then, my brow furrowed. It’s strange, waking up with Gackt at my side. Decidedly strange. I start to rub my eyes, but wince when I tug at the IV by mistake. Living like this is no easy feat. I rub my eyes with my _other_ hand, and extend my hand for the mobile.  
  
“Ah,” I nod. “Forgot.” I shrug. “Thanks.” A glance at the screen tells me it’s Megumi. I smile. It figures it’d be her who’d wake me up…ordinarily, she disapproves of mid-day napping. Or rather, late afternoon…it’s already five o’clock.  
  
“Hello?” I answer, voice gravely. I shift to the side, trying to push myself to a more alert position, but this only makes me dizzy. I can feel the blood swirling around in my head and for a moment my vision dims. I blink, and press a finger to my temple until I can make out the print on the wall.  
  
“Darling, did I wake you?” Megumi croons. “Sorry! How are you feeling?” Her voice is decidedly sweet, but with an edge of concern that sharpens the words. I can imagine her leaning on some wall or chair, tightly curling an arm just above her stomach.  
  
In real time, Gackt discretely steps out of the room, but he leaves the door cracked-- just like the nurses do. I wonder how much attention he’s been giving to the staff. The thought distracts me just long enough to feel the awkward silence as I concentrate on breathing, trying to sound as normal as possible even when my voice lacks energy or precision.  
  
“I’m…all right.” I settle. It sounds as though I’m speaking from a dream, and the words are coming from a pit in my stomach. I feel so very tired, like I’ve lost my grip on reality. “The pain’s gone, really.” I pause, and let her quietly exclaim her pleasure with this good turn. I smile at her sincerity.  
  
“I’m just a little hungry, and very light-headed. I feel like I could sleep a week…” She sighs a little in sympathy, apologizing once again for waking me. I shake that concern off quietly, and turn the conversation to a more comfortable topic. “How are your parents? Is Hinata asleep?”  
  
She takes to this topic readily, and I can see her in my mind, smiling encouragingly and at last releasing her waist. “They’re okay. Worried, of course,” she rushes to say, which makes me wonder if they’re really worried or not. I quirk a smile. “Hinata’s fine. He’s absolutely entranced with the game I got him…he’s so bright.” Ever the proud mother, her words are heartfelt as they are bright.  
  
I smile. “Game? What kind?” Curiosity touches my voice, and I wonder at the possibility. I can imagine the two of us playing together with some mysterious box, his smile dazzling and words so quick.  
  
She laughs a little, delighted with my enthusiasm. “Oh, you know, it’s a group of blocks you can build with,” Before I can tease her about having a set like it at home, she hurries on, “this one has interchangeable parts. He’s made some fantastic structures you know, and then rolls the marble on through...If he uses the other set too, maybe you can stretch it all across the house...” She laughs again, so pleased to have a father figure for our boy who’ll even consider such a childish feat.  
  
“Oh, and we got some Stockmeier beeswax crayons, honey. He’s been looking forward to trying them out with you,” she prattles on, but I’ve lost the conversation all together. The words sound like so much noise, washing over me like warm rain. Not an altogether pleasant experience, but not unbearable, either.  
  
She goes on to ramble about the places they visited on the trip, going into special detail on the actions of her parents. Seemingly wanting to include me despite my absence, Megumi takes great care with her words. She even manages to make me laugh by describing her father arguing with a waiter about what _exactly_ he had ordered.  
  
Nevertheless, it doesn’t take Megumi long to figure out that I’m not listening very well. Maybe it’s my lack of commentary, but she finally chides, “You must be exhausted,” she murmurs sympathetically, gently. She sighs a little, perhaps brushing her hair from her face. “I’ll call you in the morning, honey.”  
  
“All right, I’ll see you in the morning. I miss you.” I slur the words together, and close my cell phone. I sit there, staring at the print of Edgar Degas’ Dance on the wall for a long moment. My mind is rolling on a wave of befuddled calm, and I find myself contemplating the design on my room’s border. It’s more cheerful than I’d thought, at first…near the ceiling, that small strip of yellow and blue draws my eye delicately around the circumference-- and at last to the door. I jerk, suddenly realizing that Gackt must still be waiting outside.  
  
“Oi,” I call. “You still out there?” My lips curve around the words to form a small and round smile. I wait, patiently.  
  
Unsurprisingly, Gackt walks in, as elegant as a runway model. But it’s not Gackt I’m focused on. Tetsu pokes his head in directly after Gackt, staring at me incredulously. Comically, he looks Gackt up and down, a puzzled expression on his face, clearly wondering about my guest. His expression is sweetly humored.  
  
“Evening, Tetsu,” I say behind an amused smile.  
  
“Hello, Hyde.” Tetsu smiles sheepishly then. His voice is smooth, not tense at all. He’s lost some sleep, if the dark circles under his eyes tell me anything, but he smiles, completely relaxed in figure and form. However, he puts on a pair of sunglasses as though he catches my examination of his eyes. His smile broadens to something more natural for my lanky friend. “How are you feeling?”  
  
“Well enough.” I shrug. “They ran a few tests today, and the doctor came by and told me to lay off alcohol, fried foods and large portions.” I roll my eyes. “Not that I have any opportunity to get any of those things over here.”  
  
To the side, Gackt nods wisely. Oh, right. Like this crazy, non-rice-eating man knows _any_ thing about nutrition.  
  
Tetsu doesn’t seem to notice. “Well, at least he could give you some suggestions.” Tetsu offers, ever the optimist. He shuffles a little. “And it’s not too serious…just a little inconvenient, right? No more pain like yesterday.” He sounds relieved.  
  
Nevertheless, I stare at Tetsu for a moment, unsure. Is he trying to comfort me, or belittle my situation? Nobody wants to be stuck in the hospital, even if their health problem turns out to be “not too serious.” Having your body react like that is not an experience I’d like to repeat. But I just nod, and lean into my hospital bed. Really, I need to relax…my situation isn’t too bad, in all honesty. But it irks me to have others say as much, even friends like Tetsu.  
  
Sensing my desire to keep away from _that_ subject, Tetsu tries again. “So, Gackt,” He smiles softly, albeit uncertainly. “You’ve been doing well recently. Um, nice to see you again.” The words ring sincere, if awkward.  
  
Gackt nods used to that reaction. “Yes, it has been too long.” He pauses, and offers a small smile to me. “If only it had been on more enjoyable circumstances that we meet again…” he leans against the wall, observing Tetsu and I.  
  
I blink at Gackt, and nod before turning to Tetsu. “So, I called Megumi.” I tell Tetsu. “She’s coming in the morning.” I smile, feeling almost as shy as I was when I first met my wife.  
  
“That’s great.” Tetsu returns the smile, finally relaxing as he sits in the chair by my bed. Gackt takes the bench by the wall. They make small talk, and I listen, feeling better than I have all day.  
  
Tetsu, although he doesn’t wear makeup, compares favorably even with Gackt. He feels so very familiar in his street clothes and tall shoes. Next to Gackt, he may seem ill-dressed to some, but to me? I can still see Tetsu’s individual style. He laughs easily after the initial shock, and the smile makes him all the more real.  
  
Gackt smiles at it all, stretching calmly and dreamily speaking of more off-the-wall topics. This continues for a while, until even these words are lost on me. Only the feeling remains.  
  
In the haze that surrounds me, my situation seems more like a dream, not a nightmare at all. Tetsu, despite his sometimes coarse disposition, really only means well. His manner strikes me as awkward in this unusual dream, but his eyes are soft. I wish, then, that he hadn’t hidden behind those glasses. My long time friend is trying, though, and his smiles and quirks bring the world back to my room.  
  
If this is a dream, I think sleepily, Gackt must be the dream-eater…devouring the nightmare and leaving only fortune behind. I laugh to myself, and subsequently feel their eyes upon me.  
  
With my two friends at my side, I think that I can-- at last-- relax, and wait out the rain.  
  
I smile to myself, and lapse into slumber.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time...


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gackt and Hyde arrange a meeting in America on a business trip. Gackt PoV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second Snapshot in the "Shards" series.
> 
> This series is meant as an exploration of feelings between two people when the circumstances are complicated (i.e. Hyde is already married with a little boy). 
> 
> The plot, more or less, is to see how Hyde and Gackt work through their feelings, not to skip to the romance. :) Mostly, it's an introspective piece that tries to recreate the feeling of how a real romance might unfold between two successful, high profile men when neither of them really knows how to progress a relationship. Emphasis on realism, uneasy feelings and secret longing, rather than outspoken love. 
> 
> With that said, I hope you enjoy the ride...and the eventual romance, even if it is bittersweet.

It wasn’t really my fault. If you’d just stop to listen, I’m sure you’d agree.  
  
Perhaps it was carelessness, perhaps not…maybe the story bears no reality at all, despite the-- or because of-- emotions locked within the tale.  
  
Here. Just watch and listen.  
  
I’m standing with my back pressed against my bedroom wall, cell phone pressed to my ear. I wonder if even Hyde can hear my quickly beating heart on the other line. I haven’t felt this awkward in years-- it’s like some young, immature part of myself has resurfaced. I want something to do with my hands-- a phone cord to twist or a charm or a cell-phone strap. I can hardly keep myself from drumming my fingers on my arm, or fingering my sunglasses.  
  
“Hyde,” my voice is low, my posture tight. “…I know. I’ll keep it short.” No love poems or aching, crooning lullabies from these numbed lips.  
  
Hyde breathes evenly on the other side.  
  
What can he be thinking, as I breathe quick and quiet? Instead, I focus on what I intended to speak of. “You...have business here in America, no?” the question is with forced slowness. Soft. Deep. Completely professional, right?  
  
“Nn…” the reply is hardly there, but I can imagine the small man. I can almost see his wandering gaze and rapidly blinking eyes…the same expression he gets when he’s embarrassed, or avoiding a question.  
  
It’s perfectly natural for two acquaintances (friends, perhaps) to meet someplace while on business-- never mind that they meet half the world away in America. It’s quite understandable, you know, for the aforementioned acquaintances to plan to take the same flight over, and stay at the same hotel. It took a great deal of careful organizing to make these arrangements, and more than a few phone calls, but it’s not something I mention to Hyde. And now that we’re in California, it’s much easier to call him up—for no reason at all.  
  
I wonder, then, if Hyde is thinking of his wife. Does he feel guilty at leaving her behind, or relieved to get some time away? I wonder if he’s told Megumi that he’s staying only a few rooms away from me, and if she suspects anything. I shake my head, trying to clear these thoughts from my mind. In reality, there is nothing between Hyde and myself-- nothing at all for Megumi to be suspicious of.  
  
“Are you free now?” Hyde surprises me with the question. “Do you want to get a cup of coffee?” His voice is careful and low. “I can’t seem to wake up,” he laughs.  
  
“Ah, I’m free…we only just got here this morning.” I pause before saying, “Even _my staff_ wouldn’t be so cruel to plan overly much on the first day here. Though I have a few things to do later...” I look at the clock glowing on the nightstand then. “It’s exhausting, true.” I admit. “It doesn’t feel like morning. Could you sleep last night?”  
  
“Nah. I slept too much on the plane-ride.” Something clicks on the other line, as though Hyde is tapping something on a table, or counter. “I thought it would be a good idea to arrive in the evening—it should be easy to sleep after a long flight, right? But I wound up sleeping on the plane, and couldn’t sleep last night.” Hyde laughs again.  
  
“A true dilemma.” I agree.  
  
“So. Coffee. Meet me at the café on the corner? The one with the absurdly large cup and saucer above the door.”  
  
“I know the one,” I say. “I’ll meet you there in a few minutes, say 9:15.”  
  
I get to the café before Hyde arrives, and take a seat by the window. The table brings old Europe to mind, all wrought iron and glossy wood. The table is distinctly feminine with decorative feet and swirling supports. The effect is surprisingly fragile—not something one expects to find with metal.  
  
Hyde arrives only a few minutes after I do, looking beautiful despite his obvious exhaustion. “Sorry to make you wait,” he says, and joins me at the table. “I couldn’t find my key, and didn’t want to leave without a way back in.” He looks years younger when he grins. The fatigue falls away like so much moonlight.  
  
After an hour of pleasantries, we lapsed into silence…Though I can’t speak for Hyde, I found myself thinking of the past. Of a kiss half-remembered, half-invented. I remember my hands near his, and many long, strange conversations that never felt _wrong._ I remember that summer fondly, and thought of it extensively yesterday evening.  
  
Carefully positioning my arms behind my back, I clasp my hands together and pull in my arms. The action is meant to pull tension out, and it’s something of a relaxation technique for me. “How’s your coffee?”  
  
“It’s alright…” he looks at the black liquid with a bored expression. “Not quite as _bold_ as I like it, I suppose…”  
  
A grin surprises us both. “I never thought you’d drink _black_ coffee.” Laughter rolls into the silence like so much wind. “I’d have put you for milk, sugar, and then coffee.”  
  
Hyde chuckles with me. “No, when I want _tea,_ I have tea. Coffee’s always black for me.” He flips his hair out of his eyes, and gives me a small but poignant grin. “What’s your favorite kind of coffee?”  
  
I purse my lips together in mock-difficulty as I raise my eyes to the ceiling. The moment stretches and just as it’s about to snap, I reply, “…black. Of course.”  
  
He shakes with amusement, this man called Hyde. He must have been starved for a laugh. “Oh?”  
  
I take a long drink, rolling the taste around my tongue. “…but Hyde.” I offer him a hand, taking him by surprise. “You must never speak of that which I’m about to tell you.”  
  
With a look between amusement and subdued coolness, he takes my hand. “Of course.” His lips hardly twitch.  
  
“Sometimes,” I pause, withholding both breath and noise, “I indulge in a drink called _uber mocha._ ”  
  
Hyde looks at me with a blank expression. Shocked? Or confused?  
  
“Steamed chocolate milk with both white and regular chocolate syrups, topped with the same creamy, mellow shavings of utter sin.” I elaborate, raising an eyebrow.  
  
Surprise rolls Hyde’s eyes back. A bark of laughter escapes before he withdraws his hand in order to poke at me. “Liar!” his small form shakes with laughter once again.  
  
I could watch him like that for an endless age.  
  
As he recovers, Hyde seems to realize he’s gotten something on his fingers-- and between words, he licks and suckles each one. Whether it’s invitation or taunt, he simply smiles around the action as he speaks. “I know you don’t like sweets.” Mischief rules his eyes.  
  
“True,” I allow, a smile of my own curling my lips.  
  
The silence that overcomes us is not unwelcome. Both Hyde and I are accustomed to long stretches without words, and we quietly observe our surroundings, one another and the objects at our hands.  
  
Maybe an hour passed. Maybe only ten minutes. I’m asking a question before I can account for it, saying something that’ll hurt before I even _think_. “What about your family? How are things going? Really.”  
  
Hyde starts. His eyes dart to me for an instant, before that charming gaze wanders instead to the window. “What do you mean…” each syllable is like its own statement. It seems as though he can’t pick an emotion, however, and his voice is strangely flat for it.  
  
I draw a breath. Let it out slowly. “…I’m sorry. That was rude of me.”  
  
Surprise colors his face, and his mouth opens to release a curious tongue. He licks his lips, and _looks_ at me again.  
  
“Don’t be,” he shrugs as he says it, “sorry.”  
  
I’m trying to keep my composure, trying to look every bit the cool, mysterious poet. I nod.  
  
His brow folds with an expression of puzzled curiosity. “But what do you mean?” A smile twists his mouth. “I already--”  
  
“You look tired,” I observe, leaning toward him. I almost touch his face, but something pulls me back. I withdraw my hands.  
  
“…I don’t…” he takes a deep breath. “I don’t want to think about her right now.”  
  
Blinking rapidly myself, I push up my sunglasses. Fidgeting. “That…wasn’t what I wanted to say.” Are my cheeks red? I don’t know. “You look…sad.”  
  
At this, Hyde laughs. “Sad? Me?” he runs a delicate hand through black hair-- it shines, sometimes, like a pearl does outside of its watery home. “Is that right…” he touches his eyes, ghosting fingers across the softness of his skin, and smoothing the angle of his cheekbone.  
  
I wonder what he feels, with those artist’s hands.  
  
“…maybe it’s the weather…” he offers, half to himself.  
  
I _mm_ in polite agreement, but I must keep my judgment.  
  
He coughs hesitantly. “I’ve been sick a lot, you know…” His eyes meet mine, both of us thinking of his recent hospital stay. “Megumi worries. She doesn’t want our kid getting ill…” his eyes flutter again. This is something important, I can tell. “He’s four, why does she ob _sess_ so much? All kids get sick…” Hyde shakes his head in frustration. “Hinata-kun is a good, healthy boy. A lot better than I was.”  
  
I murmur quietly, a noise meant to be sympathetic, and at the same time, to remind Hyde that I am here. That I’m listening. In the quiet of my mind, however, I’m thinking about what he’s said; what does he mean by that last? Was Hyde _that_ sick as a child? I would ask, but he’s not done with the family talk.  
  
“Megumi dotes on Hinata…she’s always making cute foods for him, you know, making breakfast with faces and that sort of thing. She spends time shopping with the kid, and spoils him something awful.” A soft smile pulls on his lips, but it doesn’t quite erase the irritation in his eyes. “Then all the sudden she wants nothing to _do_ with him.” His hands fold in on themselves. “She’ll get him out of the house as quick as anything, or she’ll call the nanny over at odd hours and little notice.” His eyes close, and he runs his finger in small circles over the cup. “How can such a good mother do that?” he reaches up to rub a slender finger into his temple. “I don’t understand her…”  
  
A quick tensing of shoulders and an embarrassed glance in my direction-- just a little above me, actually-- says he’s remembered our situation. A shy half-smile comes over him, much like the face he’d give years past. “Sorry,” he licks his lips, “to bore you with all this…”  
  
Now I cough into my hand, shaking my head. “I don’t mind…”  
  
There’s a moment of silence between us.  
  
  
We look at one another. Some unknown is poised between us as we seek out the next conversation. Hyde opens his mouth--  
  
\-- _dd dt, dd dt._  
  
We both start at the noise. I reach for my cell, and glance over the screen. “…time to go.”  
  
It’s like waking from a dream.  
  
Hyde coughs gently, some of that blitheness drops out of him, and a more reserved, businesslike countenance overcomes him. “Well, you have to meet with your agent, yes…? And I must…” he tilts his head to the side, looking sweetly puzzled. “What am I doing?” a curtain of hair falls over his face. He swats at it in irritation.  
  
I can’t help but chuckle. “…I wonder…”  
  
Shooting a glare at me, Hyde pulls his own cell, and clicks and scrolls through a complicated list of options. He purses his lips together, undoubtedly having forgotten to set his clock to the right time.  
  
“Ten-forty.”  
  
“…thanks…”  
  
“Well?”  
  
“Ah…I’m paying a call to a jewelry designer of mine…he happens to be in the area.” A look of cool satisfaction smoothes his face. “Well. That’s decided.”  
  
“How are you going to get there?”  
  
Once again, he scowls. This time at the cell phone, which undoubtedly holds no answers. “Where’s Tetsu when I need him?” he complains, a trace of adolescent whining in his voice. He shakes his shoulders out, smoothes his jacket, and cocks his head. “I suppose I could call, and ask for directions.”  
  
I nod, and put my sunglasses on. There’s someone waiting at the hotel with a car to take me to my business. “I’m meeting someone at the hotel. Shall I walk you there?”  
  
Hyde considers this, and slowly shakes his head. “No, I’m going to call a few people first. I’ll take things from here.” He gestures to the coffee. “Thanks for indulging me.” He smiles. “But don’t be late on _my_ account, Ga-chan.”  
  
“Of course.” I nod. “And it was my pleasure. We’ll have to get together again soon. I give a half bow and excuse myself.  
  
The air outside is just starting to heat up.  
  
  
  
  
At the end of the day, I’m still thinking of my fellow musician. I take the taxi one of the assistants called for me, and stare out the window, reflecting on the day’s events.  
I can only guess at the ordeal Hyde went through, as I’m sure his English isn’t as good as mine. However he managed, I know it was through quick wit and admirable patience.  
  
For me, those several hours spent meeting with wardrobe, stylists, photographers and agents was a blur of complex speech and surprised expressions. With a wry smile, I was forced to explain again and again when confronted about the unusual lack of assistants, translators, agents, and my memorable bodyguard. “I made them rest,” said I, with just a touch of mystery.  
  
As a result, I think the American companies will never predict my actions. Tragic.  
  
All in all, the staff was amused, if a trifle frustrated. Nevertheless, they managed superbly. And I’ve finally got my wish-- they didn’t listen to the words (I doubt most understood what I said, despite my practice with native speakers). They felt my approach, the images I provided them with, and we managed to surpass the language barrier.  
  
  
There’s something uniquely charming about a half-mastered language…with Hyde, whose youthful looks suggest childish innocence, I imagine the effect is doubled. I smile at the thought, sure that Hyde would not appreciate the comparison. I reach into my pocket, and pull out my cell phone.  
  
I open and close the device, thinking of my old friend. At last, I give in, and dial the number. “Good evening.” I smile as I enter the taxi. “How was your day?”  
  
There’s silence for only a moment as Hyde contemplates his response. “It was okay…” He must be outside; I can hear the soft rustle of clothes as he walks. I hear the sound the cars on the street make as they rush by. I let the moment pass, looking out my window at the American streets.  
  
“Humbling, isn’t it?” His voice is quiet, rueful. “I realized how much I depend on other people…” he laughs sadly. Never was there a sound so heartbreakingly beautiful. “I wonder, how far I could get…on my own?”  
  
I take a shallow breath. “…mm, Hyde? _You_ could travel the breadth of the moon, and cross into the stars…if only you wanted to.” There’s no reply to this, so I look at the taxi man, briefly, as I consider my question. “What street are you on? I’ll come get you…”  
  
Maybe it wasn’t the right thing to say. He stops walking, I should say…the sounds around him are suddenly less muffled. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I don’t need help.” His voice is soft, not harsh at all. “Gackt…”  
  
For a moment, I cover the cell-phone with one hand. “Stop, please,” I say in English. “ _Now._ ” My voice takes on a severity that’s colored black. I lean back into the seat, and resume the conversation. To Hyde, “…take me to dinner.”  
  
The dry, sharp laugh that comes from him must have surprised even Hyde. “What?”  
  
“Take me to dinner.” My voice rises with confidence.  
  
Amusement creeps into Hyde’s voice. “Take yourself.” He seems less hurt, though. “…I don’t know if there are any restaurants that could suit your eccentric tastes.”  
  
I lean into the window. “Take the challenge, Hyde…” I glance at the mile meter. “Shall I meet you, or do _you_ want to come get _me?_ ”  
  
“…hh…” somewhere locked between laughter and disbelief, Hyde takes a moment to reply. “You can come to my street,” he says slowly, and the laughter overcomes all else. “62nd and Broadway.”  
  
My cell clicks as he terminates the conversation. I smile out the window.  
  
It’s going to be an interesting night.

 

* * *

  
  
The sun sets.  
  
In the meanwhile, it’s not without laughter that I redirect the taxi. As I lean into the seat, I find myself thinking that Hyde is a man kin to my own soul. I crack the window to feel the cool air. Alone with my thoughts, the ride was exhilarating…fast paced, smooth.  
  
I arrive at full dark. Around me, the tall buildings loom in violet shadows that overtake the street in a disheartening fashion. Hidden among such shade and bent back against a wall, Hyde is little more than a wraith. His pale face reflects the city’s lights-- like the moon-- as he steps out to greet me with his soft-spoken, gentle charm. “Gackt…” he offers his arm. “Shall we go?” Like a ghost, he’s at my side before I can blink.  
  
I nod slowly. “I’m all yours.” He can’t have seen the smile that accompanies the words.  
  
“I asked around…” his shoes on the pavement a quiet _clp_ amidst the night’s symphony of sound. “They told me there’s a good Asian restaurant just around the way… Sounds good, doesn’t it?” His voice is low, full.  
  
In reply, I tug on his sleeve.  
  
He looks at me with no small amount of amusement. “You a kid today?” The light strikes him in such a way that he looks singular, stark and beautiful. It occurs to me that that’s unusual for the time of day.  
  
“Well?” he demands, amused.  
  
There’s nothing wrong with a bit of play, wouldn’t you agree? I smile at Hyde, and reply, “It’s nothing.” A moment’s pause. “Do we need the cab, or are we walking from here?” I ask, and gesture to the stalled vehicle.  
  
“Ah.” Hyde tilts his head and licks his lips. “Won’t it be more fun to walk?” His mouth tilts into a smirk, only to add, “It’s not too far.”  
  
I smile back at Hyde indulgently, and then to the taxi driver. I cross the sidewalk in little time, and after he opens the window, I pay the fare. A feeling of nostalgia overcomes me, but-- impatient for the evening to begin-- I push through the unusual moment. With a smile, and a “thank you sir,” I turn back to my friend.  
  
Hyde is looking around the street, examining the Californian scenery. “It seems like another world.” Hyde says when he sees me watching him. “It’s fall and still so warm...and it was sunny earlier.” Hyde shoves his hands into his pockets, and begins walking down the street. His distinguished character is less noticeable as he steps into the bleaching aura of city lights. Thrilling, superbly defined steps bear him farther from me, and for a moment, I only watch.  
  
Coming back to myself with a chuckle, I lift a hand to swat at my hair. We’re talking about the weather. I steer the conversation away with a quiet comment. “And we don’t have to worry-- too much-- about being sighted here,” I smile at his back.  
  
Turning to look over his shoulder at me, Hyde offers half a smile. “With you, Gackt, I wouldn’t be surprised.” That gentle lilt morphs into a grin.  
  
Well, well. I trace the contour of his face with my eyes as I begin, “you had quite a turnout yourself, a few years back.” I lightly argue, and allow my long legs to overcome the distance between us. I touch his arm, though he is sure not to notice.  
  
“Mmm.”  
  
And we lapse into silence.  
  
Hyde and I walk side by side, myself contemplating the unusual situation I’ve found myself in, and Hyde an illusive mystery. It’s late fall, and I’m walking along with who but the man who’s captured my imagination-- and the both of us are well out of Japan’s limelight.  
  
Perhaps my thoughts make a fool of me, or is this a romantic evening? An intimate walk on the way to enjoy a meal in each other’s company…  
  
…I wonder. Is Hyde playing along with my little game, or is he pulling the strings?  
  
But no, this meeting is just business. We’re having dinner together to strengthen our friendship…nothing more.  
  
“Ah. Was it this corner or the next one,” Hyde muses. “Mmm. What was the name of the street?” Secretly, I smile at his expression-- pursed lips and contemplating demeanor. Long hands brush his hair out of his eyes as he thinks.  
  
I barely manage to keep in my laughter. “Oh, have you gotten us lost, Hyde?” I ask, shaping the phrase to reveal surprised curiosity. The words, they taste of sweetened lemon.  
  
“Jerk. I have not.” Hyde wrinkles his nose and rolls his eyes. “It’s the next street…it’s off, ah, Main Street.” His whole demeanor is that of an affronted child’s, though small smiles lurk in mahogany eyes. Reflected lightly in the starlight, the world spins. Some of the previous mystery lurks in Hyde’s shadow-- but he only smiles on, just as though nothing can touch us. Not even the dark.  
  
A ghost of humor colors my words. “We’re lucky this city has navigable streets, or we may have found ourselves calling that taxi back.” I roll the words around my tongue and breathe deeply the night air.  
  
“True. America’s streets make much more sense than Tokyo’s…I always felt a bit lost.” The words are only there to fill the space, but I wonder if there’s some truth to it. Hyde confronted me, earlier, when we spoke of dependency. Has this artist ever felt at ease?  
  
We lapse into silence again, matching each other's pace. I lift my eyes to the dark sky, looking for a trace of the heavenly bodies that make their home there. “Even the stars seem different…”  
  
Sharp laughter muffles amused, teasing words anew. “Really? Even half the world away from Japan, they're still the same, lover-boy.” Hyde turns his eyes upwards, and his feet stop. “Hmm…the sky is so clear.” We both look up in silence. In the sky’s expanse of inky blue, I can almost feel eternity.  
  
Slowly, I turn my eyes from the tiny pinpricks of light to watch Hyde’s face. There’s an uncertain symmetry in those lines, and a conflicting, beautiful melody lurking behind the surface. His lips part to admit the cool night, and slowly, he blows a kiss of air to the moon. The form of him is lovely as it is superb, like a soft and gentle mountain slope sculpted over with snow. Arched eyebrows, crisp eyes and perfect nose composed celestially in a gently carved face. Would that I could run my fingers across his cheeks…would I know, then, the universe?  
  
I look into his eyes, only to find him looking back.  
  
Hyde meets my gaze for only a moment, before turning away sharply. “Ah…There’s the restaurant…at the end of this block.” He takes a breath and shifts, uneasy, as he moves on. “Shall we go, stargazer?” He takes his hands from his pockets to smoothly massage his temples.  
  
“Let’s go then,” I breathe and start walking to the little restaurant in the distance. At the end of the building hangs a red lantern, barely glowing next to the plethora of electric lights.  
  
“Someone said it’s one of the better restaurants in this part of town,” Hyde is saying, and I wonder if he noticed the lantern at all.  
  
Strange, how our feet seem to slow the closer we get to our destination. Nevertheless, we reach the restaurant in but a few minutes.  
  
I push the painted-red door open, and look around. The restaurant is smaller than I’d have expected. I can see the entire expanse from door to wall…it hardly seems big enough to be a restaurant. Its floor is filled with its share of western-style tables, its walls with frames, even so. Those numerous prints hang alongside a map or two…those prints showing snarling Chinese dragons, a statuette of the Japanese god, Daigoku, and an ink drawing of scenery-- presumably of Malaysia. The character for good fortune, 福, hangs upside down in its place above the registers. I quirk a smile at that; Malaysia must not use the pictographic symbols, eh?  
  
The waitress half smiles at us as we enter. She’s a plump woman, and short of stature by American standards. Neither her dress nor her expression suggests vanity, and she isn’t quick to smile. With a glance at the door, I realize that it’s an hour-and-a-half before closing, for the store. I wonder if she appreciates the business, or if she would prefer a quiet night?  
  
“Two?” she asks. Her English is as accented as mine or Hyde’s. It’s almost a relief. I offer the tiniest of nods to her.  
  
She seats us halfway into the room, away from the cooling windows and closer to the warm kitchen. The table is simple, covered in an economical tablecloth rather than anything ornate. Pushed against the wall, the flower arrangement too is of the practical sort-- a rather unremarkable synthetic bouquet. Soy Sauce and bottled peppers flank the arrangement, and before that is a small device holding four small pots and an equal number of spoons. Presumably, these sauces are intended to accompany our meal. The whole arrangement speaks of sensibility, not of grace. Interesting.  
  
At my side, Hyde, taking great pleasure in controlling the situation, nods. He cocks his head as we make ourselves comfortable, and within moments, a menu is passed from hand to hand.  
  
It is without leaves, this menu. The cover is lined with lunch-specials, I can tell that much after a glance. However, the inside is covered with yet more words-- lengthy descriptions of house recipes. Descriptions I don’t understand. My eyes flicker upwards.  
  
Hyde studies the menu at arms’ length for a moment, as though to absorb it all at once…or to keep it as far from himself as possible. He sticks out his tongue in concentration, and holds it between his lips. Finally, he raises his eyes to say, “Gackt. You’re staring.”  
  
For a moment, I freeze. Nevertheless, I’ve practiced long to get out of this…and in an imitation of the very man before me, I lick my lips and offer a shallow smile. “So I am.”  
  
He flippantly smacks the paper on the table, raising delicately shaped eyebrows. His clever eyes are wide open. “I can’t understand a damn thing.” Laughter infiltrates this dialect-filled sentiment, though his voice is softly elegant even now. “Let’s just order and get it over with, hm?”  
  
With my nod, he hails the waiter with an, “excuse me,” that’s entirely Hyde. The following breaks in his speech don’t flow very well, and I get the feeling our waitress barely understands what Hyde’s saying. Nevertheless, he continues. “I want ginger,” those eyes of his flirt with the ceiling, “tofu, please. And tea.” He seems to be unsure of himself again, and his long fingers dance across the pages to indicate his choice.  
  
Tofu. Quaint, that he’d pick something found in most Asian countries...instead of something particular to Malaysia.  
  
“You want pearl ice tea?” The waitress barely moves her mouth to speak. I observe her reflectively, thinking that most Americans use their lips a bit more... “Or chai? Lemon?”  
  
Hyde cocks his head, considering the question and its meaning. His reply is hesitant once again. “Yes...please.”  
  
When the waitress looks at myself, I momentarily blank on everything I ever learned in English. It takes me a moment to recall the words. “...I want the...ah...” I stare at the menu. There’s a tiny mark to the left of one entry. I pause over it. Spicy? Well, then. “The black pepper....pepper steak. Please.” There’s something about my voice that’s different here, from the waitress and from Hyde. It sounds all right; I’ve got the highs and lows, the flow and the pitch, but people still don’t understand what I say.  
  
As if to confirm my incompetence yet again, the waitress today can’t catch all of it, either. She pokes a finger at the menu, raising an eyebrow. You’d think another non-native speaker would understand better, but _no._  
  
Frustrated, I nod.  
  
Hyde smirks at me. “Darling. You _do_ blush, after all...” a small twitch of lips as he relinquishes the menu. With his eyes trained on me, it’s hard to forget that he’s...everything. nothing. not mine.  
  
“What would you like to drink?” she asks slowly, suddenly wary of my displeasure.  
  
I sigh. “Lemon tea.” She scribbles something on her notepad and departs.  
  
After she’s gone, I laugh a little and raise a glass of water to Hyde. “Thanks...for taking me out.”  
  
He reaches over the table to take my hand. Within a moment’s notice, his face is composed. “It was a long day.” His voice is strong, low. “I want this to be a good trip...” Hyde shrugs, and taps his fingers along the edge of the table, suddenly losing interest in the joke. He withdraws his hand, and after a moment, his hands flutter as the waitress returns.  
  
“Pearl ice tea, and lemon tea.” The waitress clips her words and carefully sets the drinks before us.  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
Hyde and I pause awkwardly, waiting for the waitress to retreat. Hyde stirs his drink, giving it a curious look over. He sips it tentatively, and his brows rise in mild astonishment. His whole face alights when he tastes it, like a child at play. “Mm, this is good.” He rolls the softly textured mix across his tongue, pausing at the marvel. “It’s wonderful!” He offers the glass to me, “want a drink?” Another twitch of lips.  
  
“No, thank you,” I smile. “I prefer unsweetened tea.”  
  
“Ah, yes, I remember.” Hyde leans back into his chair, and licks his lips. “You were like that in Taiwan, too…”  
  
I nod. There’s no reason to say anything more-- we’re both caught in the spider web of memories, remembering that summer.  
  
Out of the blue, my friend picks it up again. “Things have changed since then, haven’t they?” Hyde drawls, a note of melancholy in his voice. His lips twitch. “But the weather seems the same.” He smiles, then.  
  
“Things don’t seem so different now…” I argue. “You are just as stunning as always. We’re both still releasing music this year.”  
  
Hyde simply looks at me, doubt marring his countenance. “You’re in a drama, and busier than ever.” Amusement colors his voice as he goes on. “L’Arc hadn’t released anything for a year-and-a-half before releasing four singles and an album. I have a four-year-old at home, and you…you’re…you’ve begun ‘world domination’ since then, Ga-chan.”  
  
I lift my sunglasses to look the other man in the eye. The silence weighs heavily on me. “Things may be different, but one friendship hasn’t changed.”  
  
Hyde covers his mouth, and looks to the ceiling. He’s actually shaking with laughter. “I can’t believe you said that!” he chokes. “Damn, Gackt, you really are a sentimental person.” He chuckles.  
  
I simply raise my glass to Hyde. “Touché.”  
  
The waitress comes back to our table and sets a bowl of steaming soup in front of each of us. I nod my thanks to her, and she offers a reserved smile.  
  
“Ooh, soup. It looks good,” Hyde says, still smiling. He unwraps the silverware and motions for me to do the same. Intent on my companion, I watch him drink the first mouthful. His eyes flutter, and he gives a little sigh. “It’s delicious.” He rolls his head, savoring the taste. “Really spicy,” he adds, and takes another sip.  
  
My eyes don’t stray from the man before me, even as I try the soup. It’s as good as Hyde claimed, but I don’t eat enthusiastically.  
  
“It’s a nice restaurant,” I smile. “Small, but the food is excellent. I can only hope that the main course is as well prepared.” I wish, then, that I could touch his hand.  
  
Hyde nods, and sips his milk-tea. “Uh-huh.” He chews on the tapioca pearl, and then clears his throat. “So, how do you like California?”  
  
I pause before replying. “Mm. The west is an interesting place…everyday seems like an adventure.”  
  
“Oh?” Hyde’s tongue darts between his lips and his eyes drift to the table next to ours. He stirs his soup, and then meets my gaze.  
  
There seems to be nothing noteworthy across the room. I frown. “Hyde, if the topic bores you, why bother asking the question?” I ask.  
  
“Because you always say interesting things.” Mischief lurks in his eyes. “Besides, I’m not bored…we’re just still getting caught up.”  
  
I take a moment to lift the spoon to my lips, letting the spice dance all about my tongue. “My life is not so interesting, these days,” I allow a small smile. “Ah, no, not at all…but, I suppose, there’s always the fast-food fiasco…” I lean back into my chair, observing Hyde with satisfaction. My eyes flicker to his soft features. “But…that story will have to wait for another time.  
  
“Last night, I looked for an age on the pay-per-view channel, seeking out something to fill the long evening...” I allow a smile to quirk my lips, and let him pause to wonder what _else_ I might want. “The only movie that looked interesting, of course, had no subtitles.” I pause, and decide to tell him a little lie. “I spent an amusing two hours creating the ensuing conversations.” A difficult thing to do by oneself, but it sounds good. It is a fine game to play with a friend. “Would you like to join me, sometime?”  
  
Hyde taps his finger on the edge of the bowl. “Making up the script to foreign movies?” His hair slides in front of his eyes, and he shakes it away. “Sounds difficult.”  
  
“It’s great fun,” I assure him. “I did it with You once in China. Pity his battery died towards the end of the movie…”  
  
“Oh, you mean on the phone.” Hyde nods, and takes a bite. “Yeah, that sounds fun.”  
  
We drink in silence for a few minutes, each of us savoring the tastes of Malaysia as marketed by our American hosts. Slowly, I empty my bowl. Each of us absorbing the ‘east’ through the western sphere’s influence.  
  
It is Hyde who brings it up in words, “They can’t seem to choose a country, yeah?” He’s been eating slowly, taking bits of the chips and sprinkling them into his soup for a nice change of texture. But now he replaces all utensils in favor of twining his fingers into a small, steepled temple. He leans into his hands, and waits for me to reply.  
  
I look around once more, noting the scattered collection of cultures on the walls and shelves. “Strange,” I agree, “Our waitress was Asian, was she not?” I murmur, brows knitting together briefly.  
  
Hyde shrugs. “Ah, yes, well, would you bring it up, if your American host had the wrong characters for your name?” He waits, and then adds, “not that they’d even try, but still.”  
  
I stiffen. “I think I’d be offended.” I push the emptied bowl of soup aside.  
  
Hyde shrugs again, and his hands free themselves as he leans back into his chair. “But you wouldn’t say anything,” he insists.  
  
“I suppose...I wouldn’t expect anyone to understand.” I close my eyes, wondering what Hyde expects me to say.  
  
A smile creeps onto his face. “The non-native employees are probably the same. Too polite or too cynical to say a word.” He laughs quietly to himself, and twirls the rack of sauces around.  
  
I smile for him, wondering privately if Hyde is speaking in riddles. Or are his words only as he says, and nothing deeper?  
  
The waitress makes her appearance again, arms full with hot plates. “Here is the Pepper Steak and Ginger Tofu.” We rearrange the plates to give her room, stacking the now-empty bowls and moving our water and other beverages out of harm’s way. Without flourish or much grace, the humble woman sets the food aside  
  
“Thank you,” Hyde tells the woman. His eyes are kind, and his lips curl a little to favor her with a small smile. As she nods and retreats again, he turns more fully towards the table, and the smile widens to show a tiny corner of tongue. He eyes the heaps of tofu on the plate, and the generous portion of rice. Pleasure is apparent in every aspect of his bearing; Hyde takes a moment to absorb the aroma.  
  
Busying myself with the look and feel of Hyde’s aura, I take little notice of my own meal. I merely chuckle at Hyde’s expression and gesture lightly at the plates. “Can you eat all that?”  
  
With something that might be called amusement, Hyde laughs a little, curling in on himself to contain the mirth. “I can handle it.” Hyde assures me. Those lovely eyes of his wander to my own plate, and he smiles again, something soft and warm filling his expression. Shortly after, a teasing smile overtakes his face. “Hm, your steak looks good, too...”  
  
Mm, eyeing my plate already. Despite this, I doubt that Hyde will finish-- no matter how much he ordinarily eats. “Yes…though it’s true...America certainly offers large meals.” I gesture to the table.  
  
“It looks good to me,” Hyde pushes the tofu around with his fork before picking up his knife. Intent on the task at hand, Hyde stretches himself out a little. Even as he critically chooses from the serving, his eyes will occasionally seek out other avenues. My face, or the décor that surrounds us.  
  
Silent, I watch him fuss with the utensils, and then delicately bite into the soft, sauce-covered tofu cube from its precarious position on the fork. I briefly wonder if he’ll ask for chopsticks, but decide he would not. Another challenge for him to face.  
  
“Delicious.” Hyde pronounces. He replaces the utensils on the plate and stirs his tea with the straw. Slowly, enticingly, he leans in to lick the stripped cylinder, gently sucking to fill his mouth with liquid that glistens on his lips. Playful, his eyes are depthless. “But it’s sweet,” he smirks now, and runs his tongue along his mouth, “so you probably won’t like it.”  
  
I do not answer Hyde’s wordless question, instead returning my gaze to the plate before me with a quirk of an eyebrow. Slowly, I carve a portion, ignoring the rice sitting distastefully close to my meal. The steak has been marinated with a dark sauce amidst lightly golden onions-- it smells strongly of black pepper, too. Small portions of green, red and orange pepper decorate the dish. Neatly severing a small piece of meat from the steak, I smile. Leisurely, I receive the morsel...chewing lightly, thoughtfully. It’s full of flavor, this dish, exploding sensuously around my mouth. With this touch of passion milder flavors cannot surpass, my steak excites my mouth and drives my senses.  
  
I pause for effect. “Delicious,” I agree, and look teasingly at my companion. “But spicy.”  
  
Hyde looks at me over his forkful of tofu, bemused. “I wouldn’t like it, hm?” He quips, flipping his hair out of his face as he takes in the scene. “I _like_ spicy food. Ah, no, Gacchan...it’s not just you who likes things hot.”  
  
Amidst quiet throws of laughter, I say nothing. Truly a character, this Hyde.  
  
A moment passes. It dawns on me that Hyde, with no moonlight to lighten his face in soft arcs, seems less likely to fade away in my vision. He seems less of a celestial being and more of an attainable goal, here. Moreover, without the wind to toss his hair, he is calmer in his movements, more playful. I miss-- in that instant-- that heavenly aura.  
  
Dinner continues, but neither of us speaks for several moments more. Each instant that passes reminds me of other nights, other dinners enjoyed with the man before me. We’ve had the pleasure of each other's professional company for so long now...is it even possible for things to change between us?  
  
The thought startles me. I begin to question myself...what is it that I’m looking for? Some deeper friendship? I stare across the table, searching for an answer in my companion.  
  
“You’ve barely touched your meal,” Hyde comments. That mischief creeps back into his voice. “Can I try a bite of your steak?”  
  
“How you manage to eat that much and stay thin, I shall never know,” I smile, and carve out a small piece for Hyde. “Here you are.” I carefully set the morsel on the other’s plate, adding a few onions on second thought. “It really is quite good.” Despite the practical nature of this small restaurant...or perhaps because of it.  
  
“Thanks,” Hyde smiles, and slowly chews. “You know,” Hyde begins, but the buzzing of his cell phone stops him. He reaches into his pocket, and excuses himself. “Megumi,” he explains, and stands up.  
  
“Hello?” he murmurs, and takes the call outside.  
  
I fold my napkin and set my fork and knife on the plate. I close my eyes, reflective. What is it that I’m seeking?  
  
“Are you finished, sir?” As though summoned, the waitress appeared again. Her words surprised me. “You want a box?” Her words are clipped and to the point, though I can tell she is trying to be courteous.  
  
“No, thank you.”  
  
“And your friend?”  
  
Ah, now that is a good question. “He’ll be back soon.” I say, and the waitress nods.  
  
“Okay, okay,” she says, and begins to stack my dishes.  
  
I sit back and wait for Hyde to return, contemplating the curious sequence of events. Life seems to slow as Hyde lingers outside, and I wish halfheartedly that I’d left something on my plate to distract me. That I hadn’t already sent the food away. Impulses, I assure myself, and best left be. There are other games to play, other venues to explore while in America.  
  
I need only wait.  
  
Hyde returns, and as the waitress presses the same question on him, he accepts a box-- for later, he assures me-- and we pick up our things. Business is completed, and we walk outside.  
  
The red lantern glows on a darkened street, though Hyde pays it no mind at all. Behind us, the fluorescent _open_ sign flashes once as Hyde summons a taxi with his cell.  
  
While we wait together, we observe the moon with her quiet melancholy and ethereal beauty. I find myself looking to Hyde once more, recapturing the image that struck me so profoundly on our way here.  
  
Hyde and I say little as we leave the red lantern behind.  
  
The day is done, and there are no more words.

* * *


	4. American Holiday, 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gackt and Hyde rendezvous in a novelty shop, thereupon deciding to go lighten their spirits with a round of tea…Gackt’s competitive and jealous nature is brought to the surface when Hyde strikes up a conversation with another man…

It’s two days until we return for Japan.  
  
Since coming here, I’ve found myself in Hyde’s company off and on for the past few days, going out for drinks, breakfast or dinner between business plans. All in all, it’s been a rather pleasant affair. Now, it’s just after six o’clock when Hyde and I opt to do some shopping in a nearby shop.  
  
I find myself thinking of no sound, walking through the large book-and-novelty store. It’s like breathing in a lungful of warm, dizzying smoke. It feels good, but can’t last long. Here, Hyde and I stay close together. I can feel his warmth next to me, and I can see, despite my wandering gaze, when he strays.  
  
Even with this much to distract me, I still find myself thinking of him. Hyde. He’s soft, this small-framed man of extraordinary existence. His features, his dark eyes, and the way he sinks into himself when left alone...all soft...but those eyes can strip down even the strongest of men. That tongue can lash out. This intriguing, strong-eyed man has worked his way into true strength...and kept a secret along the way.  
  
Do you suppose he’ll ever--  
  
“Gackt,” Hyde’s smile is warm and full, “look at this.” He held to his chest a small, U-shaped cushion. It crinkles and shifts with his movements.  
  
I can’t think of anything to say. I offer a tiny smile, wondering if my confusion is so apparent. “...it’s blue...”  
  
Hyde chuckles, looking pleased nevertheless. “I like it.”  
  
I go forward without much thought, placing one hand on the plush object. “...it’s soft,” I note with a smile.  
  
Hyde laughs, soft and lyrical. “Oh, it’s a pellet-pillow...buckwheat, you know? It’s firm.” He presses it more persistently against my palm, as if to make me retract the comment.  
  
“...the fabric’s soft,” I amend with a tilted smile. “Did you need a--”  
  
With a rueful turn of lips and a hand in his long, dark hair, Hyde chuckles a little more. Less amused, and more embarrassed, I see. “...ah, I never really cared for hotel accommodations,” he admits softly. His eyes lift in sudden mischief, however, and my thoughts of angels flee abruptly. “And then there’s you, who’s at home enough to go stark naked...”  
  
I laugh, bemused. “Hm. You never mentioned it before,” I remark, trying to bring the conversation back to Hyde.  
  
A slow smile, but no easy victory. “Hm,” he mimics, “well, I did try and keep away from bedroom topics...” he grins. “You’ve been known to spout some terribly intimate--” he breaks off abruptly, those eyes of his far from my face as he speaks on, “Oh. Look, they’ve got some journals over there.”  
  
I have to wonder how closely he minds his words, to break off like that.  
  
Hyde walks with that easy grace of his, subtly beautiful and challenging all at once. His strong hands clasp together once behind his back as he examines the row of journals. With an eye drawn to the ornately decorated volumes, his artiste’s fingers trace the delicate design. One after another, the next few receive similar treatment.  
  
After a small while, he seems to recall my presence. “Ah...” a shy smile. “Gackt, what do you think...?” The way he clutches that book...something about this must be deeper than it first appeared.  
  
I straighten my glasses, and peer over the tinted lenses. “Very...complex.” I study the design. “Ornate. Like...textile art, I think. Reminds me of brocaded silk.”  
  
Hyde’s responding look is tense...severe. “Do you think Megumi would...?” His jaw is set, almost too tight.  
  
I give the journal an appraising look. “Ah, yes...the lady would appreciate it, I think.”  
  
Unrelenting, he continues to press for my thoughts. “Mei-chan, you know, she’s a good mother.” His smile turns reflective, “she’ll always…you know. She’s awfully attached. Very motherly. See, I know…maybe she’d…” He sighs, but there’s a flicker of amusement at his own uncertainty. “You think she’ll like it?”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
He gives the book another glance as he offers me a nod. His lips slacken, and a serene expression overcomes him.  
  
Hyde and I do not speak for a long while. Our eyes wander over a good many trinkets, and at last, I give a book-- _Edinburg_ \-- a thorough look-through. It’s a tantalizing cover….water, water, and music notes. The author, I note as I flip to the back, is Korean-American. I struggle through the words’ meaning for a while, and my mind drifts from the challenge before me to the man behind.  
  
Time becomes meaningless for a few long minutes as Hyde disappears from real time.  
  
When Hyde has meandered back again sometime later, I find that he’s gathered a more substantial handful than before. The journal’s gone back, but a small, paper-wrapped packet has come in, and some whimsical toy…a wind-charm, perhaps…is held to his chest…close to his heart.  
  
I raise an eyebrow. “Changed your mind?”  
  
“Several times,” he admits with a vague grin. There’s a certain strength to him, even now. “I want it to be perfect,” he notes lightly, though his eyes belie the careless tone.  
  
“What is that?” I ask curiously, gesturing to the box.  
  
“Whirligig,” Hyde replies, mischief thick in his voice. “I want to study it…maybe design one for Hinata.”  
  
Hyde, the artist? “Ah,” I smile. “I think he’d like that.” I nod towards the other bundle. “For Megumi?”  
  
He lets the paper down to reveal a statuette. It is faery-like in its elegance, and halfway between spirit and woman. Perhaps she dances…  
  
“There’s a local shop next door,” Hyde smiles. “I thought it was perfect…do you think…?”  
  
“More character than a journal.” I note. “A lovely choice.” I smile at the armload. He’s carrying something else, too, but it’s tucked safely away in a canvas sack. I peer over his hands, but Hyde deftly slides away.  
  
“No,” he chides, dark eyes amused. “No, no.”  
  
I raise an eyebrow. “Those are—”  
  
“—for my friends,” he finishes with a sly smile.  
  
The silence stretches, and I touch Hyde’s arm gently, leading him out of the rows of books and down the stairs to the registers. He laughingly steps into line, and together, we lean against the pressing flow of human forms, only to find ourselves pushed slowly, routinely, back onto the street.  
  
Outside, I watch Hyde gently swing the paper bag, and I smile to myself. “Finish all your shopping already, then?”  
  
“Yes.” Hyde smiles in answer. “And you?”  
  
“Not yet, no. But, it’s fine.” I let my feet take me a few steps down the sidewalk, out of the way of the other shoppers bustling about. “For the time being.”  
  
“Shall we go for a cup of coffee, then?” I ask quietly.  
  
Hyde, his head lost in clouds amidst dreams, nods vaguely. I doubt he really heard, though he walks after me.  
  
“There’s probably one around here…it seems like there’s a coffee shop on every corner here.” I add, waiting for him to catch up to me.  
  
Hyde nods absently, and we walk together down the road.  
  
The early evening light is like a soft glow, gently falling over the city and its inhabitants. All around me others walk as though in a trance, oblivious to the delicate beauty draped over their shoulders. I gaze at the clouded sky for a long moment, until I return my eyes to the sidewalk before me.  
  
Hyde takes a step, and then another, not realizing that my feet have stalled. I tilt my head and smile softly. As I stand still, remembering a night several years ago, Hyde walks on, not even noticing the growing distance between us. Of course, his head must be full of family these days...no need to consider drifting friends.  
  
At last, I move my wooden feet forward, and slowly catch up to my friend. Even if he wanders away from time to time, I will always find him again.  
  
“Hyde...” I call, reaching out a hand to hold him closer.  
  
He smiles softly, moving me away so gently. “We’ve arrived.”  
  
Opening the door with a flourish, Hyde steps inside without another word. His dark eyes twinkle from behind tinted lenses, and just as I realize how far apart we’ve drifted, the door swings closed.  
  
I take a small breath, and go forward.

 

* * *

  
  
The open door becomes a portal, a new world in which everything takes on light. The warmth of the setting sun has left me, and as I enter, the whole atmosphere of the room falls upon me like a harsh wind. Warmth overflows, removing the moisture and leaving my lips dry.  
  
“Hyde,” I call, running my tongue across my lips.  
  
The other has retreated further into the shop, too far to hear. In the orange light of the coffee shop, he shines. As I watch, he settles into a plush chair, settling into it with closed eyes and upturned lips. Hyde sets his bag beside him, and begins to examine the little shop. Around him, the patrons mill and buzz with a surprising hum of energy despite the late hour. This place becomes them; it’s filled with low chairs, relaxed and warm. It’s almost as though I’ve stepped into a painting.  
  
The scent of coffee is strong in the air, and it unexpectedly turns my stomach. “Would you like some tea?” I call to Hyde again, louder this time. I gesture, directing his gaze to the counter. “Or coffee?”  
  
His reply is indistinct, so I barely hear what my eyes (his lips) confer. A quiet “Anything’s fine.” He sinks bonelessly into the folds. He seems much smaller there than he had before.  
  
I turn my eyes back to the counter and edge forward in line. My thoughts quiet here, and I offer a tiny smile to the girl waiting to take my order. Despite her severe stare and tense shoulders, I take a small breath, and make my request. “Two teas,” I pause, “not sweet.”  
  
She stares at me incredulously. “What was that?” She gives me a lookover before guessing, “tea? Earl Grey or English Breakfast?”  
  
I hesitate. “Two,” I repeat. “Maybe…ah.” I look away, and then back to her, peering over my sunglasses with nebulous blue eyes so she might catch the meaning there. “Small,” I add.  
  
She huffs quietly, and punches a few numbers into the machine. “Three-thirty-six.” she declares, and moves deftly on to the next in line. She glances at me and grumbles, “Enjoy.”  
  
I nod, handing the required bills over. I take a breath and look back to Hyde, offering a tiny, if frosted smile. My dignity takes another blow. I look over to see a stranger occupying what I’d thought of as my chair.  
  
With my thoughts a jumble, I cross my arms as I lean on the counter. I think to myself, _Hyde will want cream and sugar…_ but this does not still the pounding in my ears or return my breath.  
  
The machine hisses as a second young lady stirs unknown syrups into another customer’s thermos bottle. The light by the coffee bar shines on the employees, casting their faces into stark contrast. Hyde, on the other hand, seems to be in a spotlight, surrounded by a soft amber glow much lighter than the garish red by the cash registers. I wait, impatient, as the series of proceeding orders thin. The woman calls out the contents, and sets the drink aside for the owner to claim. Finally, she calls out our beverages.  
  
I nod, gather the hot cups in my hands and retreat to the side counter again. I breathe the aroma and look at the bragged tea leaves. I prefer my tea strained, but this wil do. The cup is hot to the touch, and steam bellows off the liquid. I deliberately steep the tea for a few moments before emptying a small packet of sugar into the cups. I add a touch of cream next, and watch it cloud the dark liquid.  
  
I listen for Hyde’s voice amongst a crowd of foreign English, and slowly return to my companion. Even though my steps are slow, the invading presence does not slink back from which it came. I take a breath, and hope spitefully that it is a _short_ conversation.  
  
“—you don’t talk much, do you?” An uncertain chuckle, complete with wide eyes. “Where you from, again?”  
  
Hyde tilts his head, and stares quietly at the man. “Japan.” He replies, his voice cool and firm despite himself.  
  
I set the clouded tea on the table between the two, and coolly smile. “Hyde,” I greet, handing him the first cup.  
  
Hyde takes care to reply in our quiet, beautiful Japanese. “Thanks,” he replies, and turns his gaze from the man to offer me a faint smile. “Oh, Gacchan, do you want to move…?” He starts to get up, to relinquish his chair so we might sit side by side.  
  
To do so would admit defeat. No, more certainly, _this_ way might be interesting.  
  
With a quick shake of the head, I reply, “no, no…I’m alright.” Taking myself from their immediate presence, I step back. I lean against the wall, watching Hyde’s tell-tale eyes follow me. I slide my legs away from my body to support my weight against the wall. Knowing both eyes to be on me, I balance the cup in a display of agility. “I’d like to stretch.” To see how long I can hold the position.  
  
“Oh,” Hyde’s tone is dubious. His voice is rich, all darkness and light with a single syllable. Precious. “Well, then.” He tilts his head, and the light shines in such a way to send streaks of amber-tinged color through his dark hair.  
  
Silence for a moment, and the questions spread between us without another word. What does one say to a man like Hyde? What does one _do_ , together.  
  
What will he do, for me?  
  
Instead, I ask, “Do you have any ideas for the whirligig?”  
  
Surprised again, Hyde turns to look at me. “What?” A moment passes by, like the gentle touch of a feather. I can only see so much of his body, but I can tell he’s tensed (in interest?) with my coming. Hyde is alive with intent, and he seems ready to spring from his chair at any moment. But a part of him is relaxed…so smooth and controlled, this contradictory Hyde.  
  
“Oh, not really…I wanted to give some thought…a message worth giving. That sort of thing.” His eyes wander around the room, crossing the stranger for a moment.  
  
The man takes this as a cue to speak again. Unlike my partner, he is all joints and ungainly angles as he gesticulates. Moreover, he addresses only Hyde. “So, you live around here, or are you just visiting?” The words are short and clipped, too fast to really understand immediately. The stranger himself looks a little nervous, as many Americans do when they hear a language other than their own.  
  
I take the liberty of responding. “No, we don’t live here.” I’m quick to fix my gaze to his. Time to attack. “Why?”  
  
The man drinks his coffee with no obvious pleasure. “Oh. You know. Just talking.” He shrugs half-heartedly. Unabashedly, he continues. “So, what do you do?”  
  
I lift my cup as if in toast. “I drink my tea,” and I’m smiling only a little.  
  
Before me, Hyde snorts, entertained as anything. “We are _art_ istes,” he grins, tilts his head and presses on. “You always talk to…people like me?” He laughs to himself.  
  
The stranger smiles, all uncertainty hidden in the creases of his face. “Good ol’ American hospitality.” The word sounds somewhat hostile to me, despite his easy grin. “I, uh, so. Artistes.” He looks us up and down.  
  
Me, tall and slender, Hyde, delicate yet somehow carrying a strong aura-- how do we look to him?  
  
“Are you…together?”  
  
Hyde’s smile is secretive. He casts his dark eyes around the room, and sits there. He tilts his head and doesn’t answer. Perhaps the question is above his understanding.  
  
I can feel my lips stretching over my teeth. I know _that_ phrase… “It’s only so-so here,” which isn’t an answer at all. The laughter grows within me, and I can’t help but add, “Don’t you think so?” Ah, an interesting turn-of-phrase can help one sound more fluent than one is, I’ve noticed…  
  
Hyde laughs aloud, now, saying to me, “I want to see a horror movie,” He’s switched to Japanese as though nothing has happened. “Something bloody and gruesome and distinctly American,” and he wags his eyebrows suggestively. “How about it, Gackt?”  
  
I shrug, and swirl my drink reflectively. Already some of the heat has left the beverage. “Ah. Okay.” I’ve won.  
  
Hyde turns to the man, and asks in his choppy English, “So…do you know a movie place?”  
  
Perhaps he’s struck by the absurdity of meeting two Japanese men and suggesting a route of entertainment. Or perhaps his mind wanders. “Er, what kind of movie?”  
  
Hyde laughs, shutting his eyes against the dim light as he does so. Peering over his sunglasses, he replies smoothly, “Horaa.” He gesticulates tightly, sure of himself and his ability to be understood, “One shi-ah-taa.”  
  
“Uh. Theater?” the man asks stupidly. “Oh. Er. Right.” He blinks in the amber light, retreating into the over-stuffed chair and speaking without thinking. “There’s a place that’ll serve you dinner…not too far. Maybe a ten minute drive, give or take. It’s called _The Blitz_ or something. Big sign.” He adds, his fingers and hands moving apart widely, as though we cannot understand the concept of _big._  
  
Without another word, I stand lazily, through with this place and American _hostility,_ offering a hand to Hyde. I slowly step out of the spotlight. “Thanks,” I casually add to the man, and leave him staring in the silence that follows.  
  
The sky appears deep and clear, much darker than the inside of the coffee shop. Somehow, I feel that I’ve left something precious inside that light…  
  
I wish absently that Hyde had chosen an outing more personal, that there would be time for just the two of us instead of a theater full of strangers. I look deep into the sky, pondering our little remaining time.  
  
Our tea is still warm when the taxi comes to greet us. The driver is a tanned man, with almond eyes the color of coal, and his black hair is as unruly as it comes. His smile is pasted on his wrinkled face, and his teeth glint yellow in the evening light. “Where to?” he asks.  
  
In English, I start, “A theater--” memory leaves me, and I stare out the glass absently, “theater, please.” Can he hear it, the regret in my voice? I wait quietly for an answer that comes too slowly.  
  
The man nods tightly, murmuring something that doesn’t sound like English.  
  
My mouth turns down, and I sink into the seat. This man…I don’t like him much.  
  
As I glance out the window, my thoughts turn spontaneously to the family I’ve spent so long making, and I wish, suddenly, that one of them could be here, too. Instead, I left most everyone I’m comfortable with-- and Hyde, the only friend beside me, now-- sits in silence. I wish for something closer than that quiet…a knowing a--  
  
The cab comes to a stop, and the taxi-man glances at us. We’re far from his usual customers, something tells me. He can’t seem to make up his mind about us, after all. “You wanted to go to a theater?” I think he said something further, but the meaning is lost on me.  
  
“Mm-hmm,” I say taciturnly, but force out the following words. What little is left of my tea is cold now, and Hyde is silent beside me. The English is harsh to my ears. “Thank you. I call later.” The phrase itself is awkward, the accent wrong. My mood has swung inexplicably downwards, I find, with the ever darkening heavens above.  
  
Time passes so slowly. The city is a blur of lights, and it seems that more than ten minutes pass in this too-tight space.  
  
Glancing out the window, I see that the theater is a modern place, as it’s built up like a pillar of flashing lights on which memories are inscribed. The very list of featured movies seems somehow archaic, with the plastic letters arranged on a similar molded frame. The taxi stops, and we get out.  
  
Hyde handles the fare, and I find my place in line again, happy to have nothing to do with that other man. Beside me, Hyde loosely swings his bag of gifts, his lips pursed together without a smile. His eyes seem as anxious as my heart, moving around the area without pause.  
  
Hyde steps into pool of lights and waits there. I look on at him from behind, unaware of the passing time. Finally, he turns to connect his eyes with mine, a dry smile lingering on his lips but not his eyes. “Gackt,” he calls. “Come on.” His voice is caught deep in his throat, as though his heart lodges there.  
  
I look on past him, then, and walk towards the cheerfully lit double doors.  
  
Hyde huffs quietly, and lightly punches my arm. “Come on, why so gloomy all the sudden?” He grins sharply as the light leaves his eyes. We’re passed into a shadow, but neither of us hurries through it.  
  
I pause there, observing the gentle folds of Hyde’s hair, the soft lines of his face. I reach out to smooth his anxiety over, but his hand stops mine as his fingertips close around my wrist.  
  
“Don’t,” Hyde warns, tilting his head to the side, his lips are pressed tight, and his whole body is tense.  
  
“Hyde,” the word numbs my lips, the name pulls my heart. “Is everything--”  
  
“Come on, I wanted to watch a movie, Gacchan...let’s hurry it up.” He moves from the shadow directly into the light, pausing only a moment as he crosses the threshold.  
  
I feel my lips turning down as he furthers the distance between us. The urge to throw his question back at him parts these errant lips of mine. I barely manage to reign in the annoyance, and simply stalk after my friend.  
  
Why is it that my time with Hyde seems so inexplicably difficult?

* * *


	5. American Holiday, 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hyde and Gackt go to see their movie. Hyde gets moody, and Gackt finds trouble.

I place a hand on Hyde’s shoulder, whispering close to his ear, “Darling.” I breathe soft, moist breath on such sensitive skin--  
  
“Stop it!” Hyde laughs, swatting at me with embarrassment. “Don’t call me that,” he grouses, pouting as his eyes close. The man moves farther away, craning his neck to read the list of movies. Eventually, his eyes stray from the showtime listing to the colorful movie posters. His eyes flit from one to the next, and I wait for him to say something else.  
  
“Na,” he calls quietly. “Let’s see that one.” He gestures slowly, and manages to make his way to the lines again. Impatiently, he taps one foot against the other, settling quietly into a comfortable standing position. He waits in line with me directly behind him, leaning close. I smile, offering little to Hyde aside from my mere presence.  
  
Hyde slowly pronounces the movie’s name, peering over his sunglasses and smiling a tiny smile. Hyde taps the counter sharply at an incomprehensible question. Hyde’s smile turns impish. He murmurs a soft and loverly reply, to which the woman behind the glass only blushes. Hyde comes away with two tickets, hands me one, and laughingly strides through the barrier as he relinquishes his ticket stub.  
  
I follow with a tiny smile, mimicking my friend with a small amount of grace. On the other side, Hyde strolls lazily across the open room, heading toward the dimly glowing lights advertising the snack bar. It’s Hyde who pulls my arm now, smirking devilishly as he tugs. “Come on, Ga-chan…!” He drawls with delight, “let’s get some candy…” He practically twirls in place.  
  
“No, Hyde…” I laugh. “No sweets.”  
  
“A hotdog, then?” He smiles sweetly, eyes twinkling as he gestures towards the glass display. “Dripping in places, crispy in other--what the hell did that guy mean by dinner?” He laughs. “Maybe we got the wrong movie theater…”  
  
I crack a smile. “Or maybe that American has a strange concept of dinner.”  
  
Hyde chuckles at that, and points delightfully at the choices. “Oh, come on, aren’t you feeling a little hungry?”  
  
The woman behind the counter looks expectantly at Hyde as the previous customer leaves. Her smile is small, but cheerful. “How can I help you?” She asks pleasantly, if quickly.  
  
“Small popcorn.” Hyde grins. “Soda.”  
  
She looks strangely befuddled, and sweetly asks, “What kind? We offer coke products, tea--”  
  
“Coke,” Hyde pauses and repeats, “Coke, please.”  
  
“Regular’s fine?”  
  
His smile seems so pure, so mischievous. “Oh, yes…” He laughs quietly, though I can’t understand why. “Please,” and he gives an English-gentlemanly bow.  
  
The girl joins in his laughter pleasantly, amusement in her warm cheeks. Her eyes do not leave Hyde, even after she collects his bill and distributes the change. Briefly, her eyes flicker to me as she asks, “and you, sir?” Her hands flutter to the register as she becomes the model of polite interest.  
  
I try not to frown. “Water, thank you.” I offer a tiny smile her way, trying not to seem out of sorts.  
  
Without faltering her sweet façade, the girl hands over two drinks, and a liter-sized bag of popcorn. “Have a nice day!” She blushes faintly as her hands touch Hyde’s.  
  
Oblivious, Hyde only laughs as he accepts the bag. “This is a small.” He grins, wagging his eyebrows suggestively. “You should help me eat it.”  
  
Even as we turn to leave, another taking our place, her eyes follow us briefly.  
  
Fully aware of this observation, I nod carefully, biting back any thought of refusal. Hyde nods his thanks, and we depart for the theater with only small looks between us to keep the solitude at bay.  
  
Walking like this is only a step from melancholy. My eyes close momentarily, leaving the light behind. Frustration slowly drains from my extremities, and I feel as though we’ve only just begun…again.  
  
The lights seem dimmer here, away from the glimmering concession-stand brilliance. Hyde walks along, impervious to this, swinging his possessions lightly, keeping his drinks barely upright. Myself? I carry a bottle of water, and another of Hyde’s souvenirs.  
  
Together, we force the doors open.  
  
The contrasting darkness therein strips me momentarily of my confidence, leaving quiet breath unspent, lingering between my lips. The moment of eerie uncertainty passes, and we wander up the ramp leading to the theater itself. The large screen flickers with its collection of images, and sound fades as even that light succumbs.  
  
Hyde offers a lilting smile in the dim light, tilting his eyes towards the back with a small nod.  
  
We ascend the light-studded stairs with much grace and little hurry, catching the eye of a few of our companions in the theater.  
  
I can see their eyes light against us, and then away while we arrange our things on the chairs to our sides. The soft cushions fold neatly when not in use, but little room remains for passerby. Noting this, Hyde chose a secluded row with far less people to obstruct our way.  
  
Momentarily, Hyde’s words pass me by, leaving a strange sensation building behind my eyes. When it passes, I feel oddly unsettled, and manage only to hear the last of what Hyde has said.  
  
“-- like moonlight.” As the very image he harbors within his words, so gently spoken, Hyde’s soft features seem as ethereal.  
  
I murmur a quiet note of agreement, wishing only for peace in this place. My unease does not fade so quickly, however.  
  
My partner leans in close to offer more words. “Gackt.” He smiles, voice low and throaty even as he flicks a piece of popcorn my way. “We should allow for confirmation in our interpretations, yes?” He flashes a grin that disappears into his words. “If there’s anything we can’t get--”  
  
Grasping his hands, I offer a tiny smile. “No worries, Hyde. It’s horror. What is there to understand?”  
  
Pouting lips belie laughing eyes, and another piece of popcorn finds itself on a path to my face. Hyde continues laughingly, even as I swat irritably at it. “Shh,” Hyde gasps between chuckles, “the movie’s starting!” He falls into the cushion without another word, though I can see his and others’ eyes glancing my way.  
  
I stare back with as cool and fierce a gaze as I can manage, but as Hyde playfully alluded, the feature film has begun. I turn myself forward.  
  
Light plays over our faces as the film progresses. Leaving the words to wash over Hyde and myself, the feature continues as my ears close to the plot. My eyes drift to watch Hyde.  
  
He nibbles on his fingers and upon the popcorn. Sinking into the chair as though every muscle is in need of support, his face is smooth, his eyes, focused. I wonder if he understands everything...even now, Hyde is, after all, a mysterious figure...I wonder if he’d admit his incomprehension?  
  
I smile to myself, and as some unfortunate woman screams her last on screen, a gasp scurries through the audience. My friend and associate is still and composed, even so, not a single worry lining his face.  
  
I touch Hyde’s arm, offering a warm smile. His hand seeks mine, and the connection between us is at last realized.  
  
Then the light fades into a blood-red mask. It darkens to a deep, ugly crimson before fading to black. Hyde slides his hand away from mine, and slowly leans forward, waiting for the film to pick up.  
  
I sigh, settling into my chair with a small but real frown. I can’t help but wonder...is he toying with me? Or does he care for this gore fest more than I’ve supposed?  
  
A pair of eyes lights on us from across the aisle. Blue eyes, a small grimace and puckered brow, this pale face reflects the blue tinge of the screen. Her lips are curling downward even now, and her arm twines around the tall man to her side. She looks away as our gazes meet.  
  
At last, the ending music cues up with a whine of violins and a steady beat of drum and trombone for emphasis. The mood winds into a slow, haunting melody of broken sadness. Hyde looks at me with deep brown eyes, a honeyed smile quirking his lips.  
  
“Some movie, hm?” He clasps his hands behind his back and stretches his shoulders with a quick pop. “S’pose we should get back...” He offers a ghost of that earlier smile, and he gathers his belongings halfheartedly. His eyes search the seats, and a frown furrows his brow. “That’s odd...” He pulls the chair down, and then the next.  
  
“Looking for something?” I ask quietly. I look beneath the chairs. “What are you looking for?”  
  
“The pillow...” his tongue slides out of his mouth, and he inhales slowly. “Must have left it at the coffee shop.” Slowly, he gathers his belongings to his chest, looking both disappointed and annoyed. His hands are tight, and his eyes flutter quickly.  
  
Uncomprehending, I reach out one hand to Hyde’s shoulder, grasping him with all the calm I can muster. Still, the lights have not come on quite yet, so he must not see the concern in my eyes (that flew from my voice). “What do you mean?” I look at him in quiet concern. “ _What_ pillow--”  
  
Hyde shrugs out of my grasp, heading down the row for the main stairs. “My blue pillow,” he says through clenched teeth.  
  
I can’t help but frown. “Hyde, there’s no need to get upset--” I begin. “We’ll get it from the shop, all right?”  
  
Hyde throws me an irritable look. “Gackt,” he calls from the aisle. “Let’s just go.” His whole demeanor has gone from quiet and reflective to sulky and annoyed, and it shows in his hands. He can’t seem to stop his fingers from grasping and twisting the plastic handle of his bag, and his fingers lock tight with tension.  
  
Gathering his bag of souvenirs to me, I make my way for him. Hyde shifts on his feet, full of energy. “Let’s just go back to the hotel,” Hyde says again, but his expression is telling.  
  
All the sudden, my friend is so tired that he cannot stand up straight. His whole body stoops into a protective slump, and his hair shields his eyes from me. He starts down the stairs, his hands close to his side despite the bags he carries. He does not wait for me.  
  
In a confused, exasperated hurry, I follow Hyde down the stairs and out the long hall. Where everyone else heads for the restrooms, I stand momentarily. I assume Hyde has disappeared behind the closed doors of the men’s rest area, so I quietly head there, opening the door slowly. In this way, I would guess, I can take watch over his possessions should I need to.  
  
Instead, I come face to face with the man from before-- the presumed boyfriend of the girl who eyed Hyde and I throughout the film.  
  
He, like the pale girl, merely looks at me with stern, annoyed eyes.  
  
Returning his redness with an unrelenting stare, I hold my ground and wait for him to remove himself from my path.  
  
We don’t move. Instead, he sneers a low, “what’s your problem, man?” He cocks his head stiffly. Seriously. “Move.”  
  
With a similar tilt of the head and an ironic lift of brow, I coolly reply, “you first.” I pause. “Please.” There is little sympathy in my voice, and my stance stiffens.  
  
He seems less than pleased with my behavior. “Are you trying to start something?”  
  
A small, strong smile finds its way to my face. “You,” I say slowly, thrusting my chin forward in an undisputable challenge. I drop one arm, raise the other, and once again wait for him to respond.  
  
Instead of stepping aside, the other stands his ground. “What’s your _problem?_ ” He asks again, irritation and disbelief raising his voice.  
  
From behind, a small group of patrons have crowded close. It’s strange, to be compressed in such an undistinguished place and carrying such unusual things. I can’t really recall which books or gifts are in my possession, but I suspect they are highly fragile. As such, I ready myself for impact, touching the bag to the floor between my loose fingers. I jerk my head threateningly in his direction without another word.  
  
Unimpressed by my own height or build, the man shoves past me with a muttered, “You just. . .” that slips through my ears without my understanding. He spits half-heartedly on his way out, and the whole company behind me is witness to his loud catcall, “You fucking fagot!”  
  
The words wash over me like a burning wind. My lips feel chapped, my heart, leaden. The blood rushing through my temples leaves me cold and hot in flashes, and I move into the small confines. My heart still thundering quickly and the blood up in my face, I feel too hot in this warm atmosphere. I want suddenly to feel the wind on my face. I glance around for Hyde, and call quietly in my native Japanese, “Hyde, are you in here?”  
  
No call answers me, and those behind seem edgy around me. Even as I look around, scowling, they scuttle past like uninterested roaches without once meeting my gaze. The unsightly men make me want to demand of them all, _What are you looking at?_ But my throat is dry, and my hands shake with the anger yet unreleased.  
  
I leave the restroom in a hurry, bags at my side. I pull one of my cell phones from my pocket and dial Hyde’s number. I can’t hear the tone anywhere inside the building. On a hunch, I head for the door.  
  
There’s a click, and Hyde breathes on the other end, “Yes?”  
  
“Where are you, Hyde?”  
  
“Outside.”  
  
I glance around. The dark sky is the only thing I see.  
  
“Turn left, Ga-chan,” Hyde says slowly, his voice rough as gravel. He sounds tired.  
  
I walk slowly, my heart still speeding even as I hopefully look for my comrade. There, by the side of the building, Hyde lounges against the cooling brick, his beautiful face turned towards the sky, one hand wrapped around his middle protectively. There, silhouetted by the light, my friend breathes curling clouds of smoke into the night air. His hand lifts, and his lips close around the thin cigarette. His eyes pierce mine with a sorrowful look, and he blows a kiss of smoke my way.  
  
“Hyde.” My hand still grasps the cell, but I lower it slowly, cutting the power. For a moment, I stare, transfixed as Hyde fills his lungs with smoke as thick as dreams. My mind awakes soon enough, though. Pained, I walk forward, my hands tight from not so long lost adrenaline. “You shouldn’t smoke,” I chide, reaching to take the offending drug from him.  
  
Hyde pulls back instinctively. He blinks at me for a long moment, and then turns his lips up in a small, bittersweet smile. “True,” he breathes away from me now, and his eyes dart to the side. He drops the cigarette then, and crushes it against the pavement soundlessly.  
  
“Let’s go back to the coffee shop.”  
  
“No. It’s a waste of time, Gackt. Let’s head back to the hotel. It’s late.” Hyde’s jaw is set.  
  
I wonder if there is some deeper meaning to Hyde’s behavior. Surely he can’t be willing to give up so soon on this newfound comfort-- the only thing Hyde’s bought for himself this entire trip. “No,” I say slowly, “nothing for you could ever be wasteful.” I take his hand, and a thin curtain of scented smoke follows. The bags of the souvenirs jostle at the fast pace as we head closer to the street.  
  
Slowly, Hyde realizes I’ve no intention of dropping the subject. “Gackt,” he barks, the weariness gone from his voice. “Can’t you see? I want to go back.”  
  
With eyes like the darkening sky or an amber stone deadened by time, Hyde looks sullenly into the night. He drums his fingers on the inside of his coat before sighing aloud. He seems so very alone in that moment, and it finally dawns on me; Hyde has yet to call his family today. I can hardly know what bars his mood from happiness, though I might guess that America is wearing on him.  
  
The minutes stretch on, and as we wait in silence, I realize that Hyde sees nothing before him. His eyes are locked away in the ends of the universe. Somehow, even with Hyde so near, our hearts have never been farther. I call out without words, offer glances and easy motions of shoulders or hands, but it’s as though mist has covered his eyes. Or stilled his warm heart.  
  
I must have said something wrong, earlier. “Hyde,” I try again. “Aren’t you getting cold?” I sigh, unwilling to let it end like this. The sun’s warmth has fled the stone, and I can’t help but feel a familiar chill.  
  
“...mm...” Hyde mumbles, all too aware of the chill, it seems. His mood has hardly turned for the better. “I’m fine,” he mutters darkly.  
  
Leaning now against the wall (beside my would-be love), I wish silently, sulkily, that I could forgive myself a cigarette. Pride won’t allow it, though. I settle into myself, wondering why I feel cold on such a warm night.  
  
Though no light reveals its form, footsteps sound down the pavement. From the direction of the theater, someone walks. Darkness veils all but Hyde, who stands in the downpour of light, so I cannot see the face. Is it the man from before? Irrational, but my mind wanders again to the man with challenge in his eyes and a mean smile.  
  
I wait, silent.  
  


* * *

  
  
Slowly, the light reveals the form of the oncoming figure. Curly blond hair, dark clothes and a gently lined face free of worry, this is hardly the thug from the theater. An easy pace draws him within hailing distance, and here he raises a hand in greeting. “Oh! Hey there.” A bemused smile lights his face, and he shuffles forward as to grasp my hand.  
  
Reluctant, I accept his shake. “Good evening,” I murmur, wishing then for the silence Hyde and I had shared before. Another conversation with the coffee-shop man hardly sounds to my benefit.  
  
Warmly smiling, now free of some of the awkwardness of the early evening and its confined space, the man steps towards Hyde to enclose the other’s gentle hand in his own callused, worn grasp. “You found _a_ theater, huh?” he calls in greeting, once again only addressing Hyde.  
  
I would prefer that he acknowledge our existence as a _couple._ I scowl into my shoulder as I look behind us.  
  
The other continues without thought for me. “Sorry, I forgot...the other theater is on the other side of town.” He shakes his head warmly, and his shaggy hair twisting and curling there reminds me briefly of a large, over-affectionate dog. “It just occurred to me, after a while, that maybe this is the wrong place for you to be at this time of night...thought I’d come and make sure you’re doin’ al’right.” He shrugs helplessly, laughing a boisterous, American laugh. “I’m glad you two are all right.” He grins wryly, still not physically acknowledging my presence.  
  
Hyde pulls out of his solitude slowly, a mischievous grin rolling from nowhere. Like mist, that smile seems to have light from nowhere and everywhere, all at once. “We thought…” He rolls his tongue around his mouth, laughingly tasting the words. “ _Dinner_...was funny.” He chuckles, low in his throat. “May-be...very American.” His accent is too charming.  
  
The other barks a laugh. “Oh, yeah...sorry.” He shrugs again, offering a crooked smile. He takes another step closer to Hyde, and shifts on his feet. “Where are you heading now?” He seems eager as a puppy.  
  
“Dunno. Hotel, maybe.” Hyde says lightly, and he offers the stranger a half-smile.  
  
I feel the air inside my lungs expand, and for a moment, my vision blurs. There’s a dull ringing in my ears and the ever-dimming light seems to fade. I clench my fists, but hold my tongue. I comfort myself with knowing that the taxi will be here soon enough, and we’ll never see this golden-haired nuisance again.  
  
“How about going to a bar?” The other asks, hopeful.  
  
A smile slowly brightens Hyde’s face. He doesn’t look to me before replying an easy, “Why not?” His smile is too lenient for my liking.  
  
My mouth opens slowly, and I begin to refuse the offer, but once again, Hyde is not looking my way. The American stranger speaks before I utter even a word.  
  
“No need to waste the money. I’ll drive you, if you want?”  
  
Hyde cocks his head, and smiles again. “Okay.”  
  
The stranger grins, and begins to walk back in the direction from which he came. We are, presumably, heading for his car. It doesn’t take long to find it-- he parked only a few meters from where we were standing. David fumbles with the remote for the doors before we can enter.  
  
David gropes for his seatbelt, and makes room for the bags of souvenirs. Throughout it all, Hyde is silent.  
  
My mind is awhirl, and the anger inside me spins. “What was your name again?” I ask bluntly, looking at Hyde. _Why_ is he accepting a stranger’s invitation to go drinking?  
  
“Gacchan, try not to be so forgetful.” Hyde jabs at my side as he speaks in Japanese. “He is David, yes?” He directs the question towards David in halting English.  
  
 _David_ grins. “Yeah. But I don’t think I got your name, Mr...?” He looks directly at _me_  
  
I consider rebuking him, but decide against it. “Gackt.” I supply quietly.  
  
“Last name?” David doesn’t wait for confirmation. “Wow, that must be tough.” He grins foolishly at me, looking like a puppy with a toy. “Funny, I thought Japanese has more vowels...like Sony? Or Toyota, or...uh, Toshiba. _Gackt_ sounds, I dunno. Almost German.” He laughs at the saying. “So, anyways. It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Gackt.”  
  
I nod curtly and say nothing as Hyde and the man continue their slow and pointless conversation. My eyes watch the landmarks, and slowly, I realize that another phone call is in order. While Hyde and David discuss the differences between Japan and America, I phone the taxi service. Whether or not we’re where I told the service to pick us up, I need someone to know where we’ve gone...lest this idiotic puppy turn out to be a serial killer in disguise.  
  
The road is not long, so I miss most of the landmarks before we turn and park near a brightly lit building that thrums and lifts with noise. My heart skips a beat, and excitement builds slowly in my blood.  
  
Finally, we get to the bar. We step into the bar, and wander through a sea of warm bodies. This den smells strongly of smoke, greasy food and beer.  
  
Beside me, Hyde murmurs to me in Japanese, “I’ve been wanting a beer all week.” He grins, and wags his eyebrows.  
  
I neglect mentioning Hyde’s earlier refusal to come drinking with _me_. Hyde is a _strange_ man, all in all. He forgets his friends and entertains strangers...  
  
The music is deafening; I look to the side to see a scantily clad woman singing karaoke. Her voice is whining and weak, but her expression says she doesn’t care. Those around her don’t seem bothered, and a few people even pay close attention to her song. Besides this, many more talk at the tables. David and Hyde are quick to strike up a conversation, though one can barely hear what they are saying.  
  
Alone in this room of bodies and heat, I feel something strange. It’s like I’m a fox in this lair of rotting flesh (stashed away to be eaten later), and the only noise comes from my mate-- but it is not so. _Hyde_ barely notices me.  
  
He turns away at last, offering me a soundless _look_ as we near the bar. Hyde pulls my hand. Were the world aflame, I would know that look...  
  
In that moment, my heart lifts and some of the resentment leaves me. I turn.  
  
Hyde’s smile is like a warmly burning sun and his eyes glisten like twin stars. I could easily find heaven in that face. Hyde’s lips open, and words cascade over me like a softly blowing wind. “Gackt, let’s not stay too long.”  
  
My heart lurches inside the cold cavity of my chest, and the warmth of Hyde’s eyes slowly kindles in my body. “Ah,” I breathe the word and squeeze Hyde’s hand in response. That moment where our hands are intertwined becomes a slow eternity. All shades of blue (Hyde’s beloved blue...), this moment gathers with others to form an unshakeable bond.  
  
David swallows uncomfortably as Hyde and I settle into a place beside him. He lifts a glass of beer in some mockery of a toast, and offers a shrug and a smile. “Can I get you something?” He seems uncomfortable, this blond man with shaky grins.  
  
I lean close, and mutter, “No thank you.” I cock my head and peer at the bartender beyond him.  
  
Hyde shakes his head mutely, and calls the bartender over with a flirtatious smile and crinkled eyes. Through a complicated series of gestures and slow pronunciation, Hyde becomes our entertainment as he struggles for the proper English phrases.  
  
Though (perhaps) I’ve more experience with ordering than my companion, the bartender shows little more comprehension with my speech than Hyde’s.  
  
My little piece of heaven has vanished into thin, red smoke.  
  
I sip at the concoction with little pleasure, wondering if the man got the right drink, or if the American version simply isn’t to my taste. The fog of my mind thickens and tightens, leaving me choking for air. Is this jealousy?  
  
Meanwhile, the ever-flirtatious David seems to be getting more smiles from Hyde than I have all night. Hyde is at ease, boisterous, witty, and fully _male_ in all his charms. He teases and smiles...  
  
I sink into the chair, tired, but unwilling to look away or rest my eyes. As Hyde smartly dodges around word play and amusing gestures, I barely notice the others sitting close to me. In my own little world, I surface from the cold waters of disappointment to hear a few words.  
  
It seems the two men at my side have been discussing my situation. They’re obviously drunk, but my curiosity is piqued, and I can’t help but hear a snatch of their conversation. “Fuck’n rice queen to compete with, eh?” His voice is guttural and his accent thick.  
  
His companion utters something into his beer, and the two have a loud, coarse laugh.  
  
I grit my teeth, but keep my seat. I understand enough of what they say to know it isn’t good, but my knowledge of American slang doesn’t fit the insulting comments. I choose to favor the two with a cold glare, but I swiftly return to my (too-warm) drink soon enough.  
  
Better to drown in the sea of misery than to strangle two unknowns with fire.  
  
I’m certain Hyde wouldn’t appreciate the publicity that comes with barroom fights-- especially if anyone realized the brawl was over _him_. Oh, what problems that would cause, I think darkly.  
  
Beside me, David leans in to whisper something into Hyde’s ear, and Hyde raises a (puzzled?) eyebrow in response. Hyde makes no verbal reply; instead, he sips his drink.  
  
 _What mystery._ The thought is sharp and cold in my mind, and I don’t bother to still my tongue. “What are you two conspiring about?” I ask, my Japanese waspish. I nurse my drink slowly, turning a sour eye on the two more openly.  
  
Hyde looks faintly puzzled when he replies. “Not sure.” He shrugs. Slowly, he adds, “but I believe David thinks you’re too arrogant.”  
  
“Oh does he?” My eyes slide over to the blond man. “Are you sure he’s not just flirting, Hyde?” My tone is almost light, almost free of the anger threatening to snap.  
  
“Gacchan, really.” Hyde rolls his eyes. “I’m married, and older than him. Why would he--”  
  
“That doesn’t exactly look like a wedding ring, Hyde.” I tap a finger on my glass.  
  
Hyde only shrugs at that. “You have a point. Maybe he _is_ flirting.” Hyde’s eyes twinkle with mischief.  
  
“You should tell him to back off.” I swallow my drink slowly, and swirl the remainder in my cup.  
  
“Why?” Hyde lifts his chin in a challenge. “Lighten up, Gacchan. It’s not like I’ll ever see him again!”  
  
“Do you want to?”  
  
“Of course not!” Hyde looks offended. “I’m married, Gackt, or have you forgotten?” Hyde’s tone is icy, and his eyes glimmer like a knife. Hyde turns away from me to resume their conversation.  
  
I swallow my drink in a controlled, slow motion. I can’t seem rushed, or upset, not even here, hours away from my home country. Hyde sits beside me in this dim bar, but we seem to be drifting farther apart, and I hardly know what to do about it....I sigh as Hyde continues listening to the American talk on and on.  
  
The flavors on my tongue are burning bright, and my eyes betray my feelings. Behind the blue nebula that masks my eyes, my mind searches for a way to get out of here _soon_  
  
My eyes ache and as I finish my drink, and I signal for the bartender for another. I blink my eyes against the dry darkness and listen as Hyde attempts some clumsy conversation.  
  
I turn to David. “Do you train?”  
  
The man blinks back at me, seemingly confused, or perhaps only surprised that I said anything. “Er, No, not really. Do you mean _dogs_ or something?”  
  
I shrug casually, and reply. “...mmm. No. You. Do you train?” I make an elegant stretching movement and give him a pointed look. I raise my eyebrow, though I can see the answer even now. “No?”  
  
Helpless as ever, David looks from Hyde to me, and then takes a long drink of beer. “No,” he replies, uncertainty lingering in his voice. He takes another drink before continuing. “I mean...well, do you?”  
  
Hyde smiles into his drink. “Mm-hmm. Very strong.” This typical omission of both subject and verb seems to only make Hyde more mysterious.  
  
Slowly, the conversation dies.  
  
“Do you want another drink?” David asks Hyde some moments later. David leans closer to Hyde again, and says something too low for me to hear.  
  
“No, thank you. I’m going.” Hyde’s usually sweet voice is tinged with tired disappointment. How quickly he becomes cold and indifferent.  
  
I could smile.  
  
Hyde has barely finished his drink when he says, “Well, Gacchan, tomorrow is another early start?”  
  
I shrug nonchalantly and nod as sweetly as I can manage.  
  
In English, Hyde murmurs, “thank you for the talk.” His smile wistful, and vaguely sweet. “It was...interesting.” He puts a few bills on the counter, and we move our conversation outside.  
  
I walk off to the side of the building and David follows us into the dim street like a stray dog. I turn about in place, annoyed. “Walk with me until the taxi comes,” I beseech, putting the cell to my ear.  
  
Hyde puts his hands into his pockets, though it’s not cold. He ignores my gaze, looking instead to the stars. David, on the other hand, seems uncomfortably aware of my stern gaze and is at last quiet. It’s too late for him to warm up to me, however.  
  
“So, um...it’s cooling off pretty well, huh?” David says slowly, unsure of my response.  
  
I nod, murmuring a similar, (worthless) “Yes.”  
  
Hyde is off on an unhearing dreamland, so he says nothing. Perhaps he thinks of pretty words to light the night...  
  
I push myself off to the side, and call the taxi back. The phone rings and the taxi service finally picks up. “Hello,” I breathe in English. “This is Gackt.” I pause a moment, waiting for Hyde and the woman to respond. I glance forward and squint at the closest street sign as she rambles off the usual taxi information. “Yes, another taxi,” I agree, plucking my mind for more English phrases, hoping my anger with the whole evening doesn’t destroy the meaning I wish to give. I describe the street we’re on, and quickly wrap up the conversation.  
  
Behind me, Hyde murmurs sweetly in Japanese, “Farewell sunshine, hello moon... the stars play, aglow with you tonight...” I wonder if it is some game he and his child play?  
  
David leans in closer to ask, “What does it mean?” For once I do not know to whom this question is addressed.  
  
Hyde gestures to the heavens above, but does not reply.  
  
“I’ll drive you home?” the blond man asks hopefully, though even he can guess the reply.  
  
Hyde’s eyebrow raises incredulously, a slightly mocking smile on his beautiful face. But he laughs sweetly, seemingly charmed by the worry. “Don’t mind,” he repeats, laughter in his voice. “No.” Hyde shakes his head, nodding discreetly at me and gesturing with an open palm. Slow, aristocratic, Hyde’s gesture and words give the other the missing parts of Hyde’s speech. “We called the taxi. Don’t mind.”  
  
The American seems vaguely puzzled by Hyde’s use of the phrase.  
  
 _What_ does this gawking man have that calms Hyde? _Why_ is he polite to the stranger, but unresponsive and cold with me? I feel anger stir in the pit of my stomach, feel it tense and curl like a string. In the back of my mind, I wonder if it (if I) will snap here and now, or later in silence and solitude. I can only close my eyes against the unpleasant scene, and close my ears to the English.  
  
After what feels like an age, there’s the rumble of an engine, and an American voice calls, “Mr. Gackt?”  
  
My eyes work faster than my mind, and I’m by the road in the blink of an eye, my hands touching the warm metal of the automobile. The pavement beneath my feet seems warm, even so long after sunset. I lean forward and open the door, ready to be done with all of this. “Hyde,” I murmur, breaking off what must have been a farewell.  
  
The youngish man gives a strained smile, keen to be recalled with favor when Hyde leaves. “Well, I bet you’ll be fine here...” he nods wisely, looking more of a fool in my mind. “I’m glad the night has gone so well.” He laughs, as though we know and share in the joke.  
  
Hyde offers a tiny bow. “Good bye,” he hesitates. “Thank you.” And with that, he gets into the taxi.  
  
I offer the man one long glance, finally free of his prattle. My eyes must be cold as steel, for he does not smile at me. “Good night.” I offer the send-off stiffly, following Hyde into the darkened cabin of the car.  
  
As we head off for the hotel, my eyes watch the blond man grow smaller-- darker-- as the shadows between us widen. Finally, as he begins to disappear from view, the man turns his back to us after offering one last wave.  
  
I turn to Hyde, wanting to distract his mind from dour thoughts. His expression is soft but sad, and I am now impatient as I’ve _ever_ been to drown my lungs with thick, lackluster smoke. My fingers twitch as I ask, “What was that about?” My voice is cool, resolute and edged with ice.  
  
Hyde leans forward, asking the driver, “Is tobacco okay?”  
  
The man wordlessly taps the _no smoking_ sign, unwilling to open his mind through conversation.  
  
Hyde glances at me with pursed lips, growling a coarse, “ _What_ do you mean?” His porcelain-like features are of a cool sort of beauty. In this dim atmosphere, he is the only source of light.  
  
I don’t reply, turning my mind towards other things. The dark anger inside me turns and spins even as I watch the city lights all around me. Hyde sits as silent as the moon beside me. The drive back to the hotel stretches on like the strand of anger within me, as we pass light after fading light.  
  
The evening lapses into uninterrupted silence at last.  
  
The weariness builds in my chest, and finally we arrive. But Hyde shifts uneasily, pulling at his bags and leaping to his feet without a word to me.  
  
I stop to pay the driver without a word to him, and slowly walk after Hyde. With bags in hand and mouth clenched tight, I delicately weave my hands through the procedure. I nod my thanks and farewell to the man who drove us, heading for the door with my eyes downcast.  
  
I cannot let things pass without saying _some_ thing, so I call to Hyde, “I’ll help you take these to your room.” Smiling somewhat helpfully, I think to myself, _now I’ll finally have his full attention..._  
  
Hyde nods vaguely, lost in thought as ever. “Okay...sorry for the trouble.” Yet with one hand, he dials a phone number and turns his head away from me.  
  
I grit my teeth as the phone connects.  
  
“Dear?” Hyde greets, and a soft, slow smile comes over his face. He leans into his hand, perfectly unaware of his feet leading him to the temporary _home._ Instead of the sultry, unhappy frown of the evening, Hyde slowly settles into a peaceful existence. Even his eyes flutter with pleasure, far sooner than I would have expected. “Mmm,” he murmurs, lips fighting an all-out grin. “Is that so?”  
  
Silence as we board the elevator.  
  
Then, Hyde laughs. “Oh?” His whole face is alight, and mischief glistens in his eyes. He glances at the bags at his side, not seeing me at all. “...nothing much. Just work here.” He looks now at my feet, but he skips over my face in favor for the wall. “Ahh, yes, I’ll be home soon.” He pauses, barely voicing what his lips form. “...ah. I suppose it is late...” He nods without thinking. Settling for the faintest, “I’ll be seeing you soon,” Hyde pauses before succumbing to a grin that could shed light for an age, were smiles as candles. “Hey.” He playfully switches to that tone of voice one uses with children. “Wha’cha up to?”  
  
The next few minutes are filled with smiles (small or overwhelming, fast or long), and tiny noises show he’s still listening throughout.  
  
Finally, after we’ve cleared security and walked the length of the hall, Hyde speaks in a soothing, knowing voice. “Yeah. Daddy’s going to be home soon...and you know what?” He waits a moment, just as a child would expect. “We’ll give something really special to Mommy. So be good for her, and she’ll let you help. Okay?” Another minute as he unlocks the door, and he slowly shuffles inside the room.  
  
I stand at the threshold, unsure if I should intrude.  
  
Hyde continues, oblivious. “Alright, sweetie.” Pause. “Yeah, better save some of that.” A laugh makes his words hard to understand, but he’s simply charming, nevertheless. “Bye, Hi-chan. I’ll see you soon.” He smiles as though it’s the last he’ll ever give. “Mm,” his fingers dance hesitantly over the keys on his phone. With one last, “You too,” he hangs up with an easy sigh, relief dancing in and out of his breath. Hyde seems lost in thoughts of home and family, oblivious to my presence.  
  
I follow behind Hyde, close at his heels. I want to have a _proper_ ending to this night.  
  
Hyde looks at me curiously, at last recognizing my presence. “Thank you for your help, but I’ll take the bags from here.” He waits for me to hand him the gifts, but I do not move. Hyde purses his lips, and a tiny line forms between his eyes. “Gacchan, your room is on the other floor,” he intones, voice bouncing lightly off the empty hall.  
  
“Ah, Hyde, the night is too young to leave your presence.” I put a hand on my small friend’s shoulder.  
  
“Oh, really?” Hyde’s eyes flit to mine, and his lip turns up.  
  
“Yes,” I murmur, and gently guide Hyde further into his room.  
  
“So.” Hyde seems to be over his earlier mood. Nevertheless, the tension that’s been building from before has not dissipated. “You’re here.” He smiles gently, but for some reason, it seems as though he’s still only smiling a father’s indulgent smile.  
  
My fingers itch. I want to wipe that _use_ less smile away, to replace it with a tiny smirk that begs for release in more ways than one. I close my eyes and wait for the darkness to fade.  
  
Hyde walks confidently towards his bed, without checking to see if I follow. He doesn’t look behind once, not even after he unlocks the door and pushes it open. I follow him in.  
  
Across from me, Hyde makes for the light switch. He flips it on, then off again, puzzled. The darkness retreats only a little, I see. One of the lights remains, but the others glow only dimly. The whole room is lit as to dream of clouds and smoke, a bare reality that has Hyde laughing quietly to himself. “...should probably call the front desk about that...” he notes absently.  
  
Hyde takes a few slow steps towards the nightstand then, ready to place his belongings there. “Well then,” he breathes deeply. “Good night, Gacchan.”  
  
I look at Hyde in the dim light. “Are you going to let it end like this?” My voice is purposefully calm. Soft.  
  
“Why shouldn’t we?” His words are casual as he looks at the broken light. “It was a fun night, but we’re both busy tomorrow.” His whole tone is casual and unconcerned and completely sure of the dreadful meaning he imparts.  
  
It’s as though time stops to play a quiet serenade...a sorrowful and deep melody as wide as oceans. My tongue can taste the salty sadness that washes over me; it’s cold and tinged with my heart’s blood. All at once, the blood leaves my face, and my stomach churns unsettlingly. I want to cry out, to shout at the maelstrom of feelings. _No_...to say once and for all the meaning of _Hyde_ to me.  
  
My body seems to move on its own accord, and there in that dim cave of memories is _darkness_ and a sudden anger encloses my heart. The cold has fled, leaving white-hot anger in its place.  
  
I take a few steps closer to Hyde, and push him into the wall, grasping both his shoulders.  
  
I can feel Hyde’s subtle warmth, through my own heat. It’s as though I can feel the energy of his soul, and sense the restlessness within him. On his breath, I can almost taste his core-- and my eyes flutter with the thought of just that.  
  
Reality opens one eye as Hyde protests. Hyde shakes his arm in attempts to remove my presence from his earthly body. “Hey!” The word is undignified, but true to his feelings. “Gackt, let me go.” Hyde grunts. “Let _go_.” His whole being is comprised of resistance, and I _know_ him at last.  
  
And I want him. I want Hyde. “What’s wrong?” I purr. Irritation and anger dance around lust in my voice.  
  
There against the wall, Hyde looks almost too soft. Too young, and too beautiful. This is only temporary, though. A scowl shears his face in two, and his eyes dance with black smoke between us. “What the _hell_ do you want now?” Hyde demands. He jerks his body away and makes as though to kick my knees, only to stop.  
  
He won’t so easily destroy this fragile relationship, oh?  
  
“Gackt, no more jokes.” He wails for me to release him. In vain.  
  
I look down at him with detached interest. I can feel my heart pounding within the cavern that is my chest, and I can once again feel the surge of blood behind my eyes. “Hyde,” I murmur. The instant there is like a small eternity, glimmering and fluttering like a dying moth.  
  
It happens in half an instant, between one breath and another. My lips against Hyde’s, feeling the soft tissue like a cloud of air. My eyes flutter closed, but not my ears.  
  
“--mm--” Hyde chokes, surprised as anything and without any feeling.  
  
The light between us flickers and dies.  
  
I retreat with the tiniest of frowns, willing myself to keep a cool, disdainful distance. I say nothing.  
  
Hyde looks at me with something between shock and hatred. He jerks free of my slackened grip, wiping his mouth with the back of one hand. Heading immediately for the bar at the back of the room, he frees a bottle from its confines and trips the cap. He, like me, says nothing, but downs half the beverage without thinking. He pulls a cigarette from his pocket and draws a ragged breath.  
  
“Hyde.” I cannot plea.  
  
Across the room, Hyde leans against the wall. “Go. Just go.”  
  
Like that’s all there is to it.  
  
I hesitate as Hyde looks me over, his smile nonexistent. Anger flashes in his eyes, and he stares me down incessantly. “Go!” He makes a slashing motion with one hand. “Just go!”  
  
Numb, I turn-- against my better judgment-- and head slowly for the door. I take one step towards the hall, and I give Hyde one last look there in the darkness.  
  
He stands alone in the darkened room, the only light coming from a dulled fixture. That, and one brightly burning cigarette. It’s red in this light, red and angry.  
  
I close the door behind me. Outside Hyde’s room, the hall is unnecessarily bright. It’s like I’ve stepped into a catacomb of light prisms and dangerous spider webs of design. I try to concentrate on the scene, to make poetry in my head. But my mind returns again and again to one thing…  
  
I’ve just kissed Hyde. My mind spins with the thought of it.  
  
It’s as though my mind has caught aflame, and my memory replaced with dry ashes and sweet smelling smoke. Try and take me from the gray-falling rain, from Hyde’s soft lips and angry, sorrowful eyes. Just try.  
  
I swallow once, and find myself limp on my hotel bed, staring up at the ceiling.  
  
My throat burns, and my eyes sting.  
  
I cannot plea.  
  
Cannot beg.  
  
I will not ask for forgiveness.


	6. American Holiday, 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gackt dreams of fiery kisses on a rain-filled night…he dreams of Hyde.

  
  
Sleep takes me in, little by little. It’s as though the coal-kissed rain clouds have birthed a sweet daughter called _Dream._ She is fair, playful and beautiful, promising pleasure and making no mention of pain.  
  
Her smile is mine.  
  
I take Hyde’s hand, in this blessed dream, and I kiss it once. He shares in my desire, and showers me with radiant love in that tiny smile reflected dearly in his eyes.  
  
I pull Hyde to me, fearful for a moment in this mist-shrouded world that Hyde will turn from me in earnest. That he will depart for the warm, radiant sunshine. Burying my face in his warm, fragrant hair, I enjoy the feel of him, the reflected radiance he receives from another love. In this soft, forest-like grove, I can feel his love for me-- and for all the world around us.  
  
Hyde strokes my hair in this dream of sunshine through rain, and he opens his mind to mine with a song, deep and mellifluous within his throat. He soothes me without once voicing my weaknesses, without making me feel poor or ill-conceived.  
  
I open my dream-eyes to his honeyed smile, and he pulls me further in, a carefree tune breaking his lips and burning my eyes. I say nothing, but allow my lips to curl into a small, delicious smile.  
  
The first word of Dream is simple, and it is the whole of my heart. “Hyde.”  
  
His mischief-filled eyes soften for me, and the mist thickens. I barely recognize the bed of blossoms laid out for us by Dream, and smell only the fragrance of Hyde. It is a dark, rich scent, not that of a woman at all. However, it pleases me to know that he would keep himself so clean for one such as I.  
  
“Open your eyes,” Hyde breathes. His lips are softly parted, his eyes dark and bright, all at once.  
  
I open my eyes.  
  
Hyde’s kiss is full of the sound of night, and his grasp is tight as the wind. I can feel his heart beating close to mine, and it heralds another deep, furious kiss that parts my lips and yields only when tongues tap, tickle and smooth the secret place within the vessel of speech.  
  
I hold Hyde close to me, feeling every muscle as best I can. Relishing the feel of his strong body, trapping his attention with small caresses and firm pressure _just_ where a man needs it most. I smooth my fingers along his back in wide circles, mirroring the universe and its cycles. His body is tense with anticipation.  
  
Dream opens my mouth, and silvery words like Dream’s silvery hair weave themselves into our minds and within our hearts. “Say you love me.” The promise every woman wants. The weakness no man dares to entreat.  
  
Hyde deepens the kiss and explores my hardened figure with lax hands. I can only hope that he will etch a promise on his heart, but I will not ask--  
  
\--I do not need to.  
  
“Darling.” The word is teasing, light and playful as this man can sometimes be. “I am yours as long as you are mine.” His hands remove the last physical barrier between us, and a smooth, light and creamy substance finds itself penetrating my skin. He rubs the lotion deep, and I do the same for him.  
  
Pleasure breeches the threshold of my mind, and my mouth finds his. There are no words left in my consciousness, and our tongues meet once again.  
  
When Hyde pulls away slightly, he tucks his head into the crook of my neck and exposes a delicious expanse of skin. I suckle and pull lightly at the taut muscle there, touching my lips to the sensitive, supple skin on his throat. It both yields and strains as Hyde reveals more responsive areas to explore. My hands grasp him tightly, pulling him in just the right position. Our bodies move in sync, and slowly, I guide my friend-- my lover-- to where we ought to be.  
  
Small kisses replace the deeper ones, and we find simple, surface pleasure from each other. I moan into his sweet skin, and move my tongue to other places.  
  
Against me, Hyde leans, bending like a supple crescent to _me_. Hyde seems to enjoy a firm hand on his thigh and gentle administrations to his back muscles. The slow massage quickens as we do, and I grasp intently at his back. Fire dances between us, in and out of us as we breathe jagged breaths like glass.  
  
“Look at me,” Hyde gasps, breath trailing like smoke as we find each other deeply. “Darling. Open your eyes.” He twins sun and moon in my mind, a god of desire and so much more. He is my completion, and he is my will.  
  
I do as he says. Miraculously, I can see into his eyes as well as I can see the darkest skies. I know him from my memory, and I can see the bright light within his heart. He guides me closer, deeper, and together, we rise above the mist. Above the rain.  
  
Somewhere-- here?-- rain falls on heated shoulders. Freedom fails us as daylight breaks and shatters the delicate dream.  
  
Slowly, painfully, I reach for my lover’s heart, but I touch only a red, burning cinder.  
  
Sunlight has broken the illusion beneath the rain, and Hyde’s beautiful, dark hair shines a silvery gold.  
  
Dream opens his mouth, and a tiny flash of starlight fills his words. “My beautiful Dream...” His dark eyes return to me, and I find my fingers tangled, inexplicably, in dark, silken hair. His voice is husky, and like the perfect vision that he is, he reaches to touch my heated chest. As he twirls his fingers across the deep-feeling skin of my stomach, a deep-rooted shiver pulls my body closer to his.  
  
“Never mind,” his voice whispers in my mind, here in the shadowy world of dreams, “who is Dream and who is not.” He caresses my cheek, lifts my eyes by will alone. “We are lovers here.”  
  
The passion has not abated; the heat between us has not cooled. I want him, this beautiful vision of Hyde...  
  
A cry tears the throat of beautiful Dream, and I do not know who voices it.  
  
Harsh bells sound in my ears, and a screech of sensation penetrates Dream like a sword.  
  
My eyes flutter--  
  
“No.” Hyde’s voice is rough, deep. Tired. “Stay with me.” He puts a hand on my chest to stay my beating heart.  
  
In this moment, I want nothing more than to hold him close, this dream of Hyde who so well knows me. Who knows my heart, too.  
  
The breath of light blows across my chest, and the warm embrace we had shared turns at once into light. Pain to my eyes.  
  
I gingerly press my lips to his, knowing that the rain we feel shall not desist. It will pour down longer and harder, until finally...?  
  
All of rain’s Dreams will be as dust.  
  
A sad smile crosses from Hyde to me. And here, in the mist-ridden dream of happiness and lust, darkness intrudes.  
  
“Darling,” Hyde says tightly, his lips pressing to my neck between each word. A kiss that I shall not remember, but cannot completely forget… “Don’t open your--”  
  


* * *

  
  
The sun is bright in my eyes from across the ocean, shining dangerously into my dazed vision. This tiny overhead view of the world strikes me painfully, coming through the passenger window as it does.  
  
Events of the week come back to me now…In my mind’s eye, I see again-- me, Hyde, and--  
  
You’ve heard.  
  
You’ve seen.  
  
I told you before. None of it is a fault of mine.  
  
Hyde is a fool, and he sits beside me, silent as a doll. When we return to Japan, Hyde will be as he was before-- distant and unfamiliar. Or worse, things have gone to that point where we can no longer abide by each other’s presence.  
  
I glance at Hyde, and wonder. How will things end with us?  
  
I can only wait and see.  
  



	7. broken glass, 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hyde thinks about his trip with Gackt to America while practicing with L'Arc...

A sea of harmony seeps into my conscious in a synchronization of beats and noise. I listen and _know_ that this is where peace breaks into a million pieces of _sound_. All together, we’re a blend of heartache for this song, experimenting with chords and playing our hearts and minds on the page of _music_.  
  
Sounds fill the recording studio; around me, the drums pulse, the guitar sings out a complex string of chords, and the bass hums sweetly. My voice is only another piece of this music. In the shift and pulse of our song, my voice takes on a certain quality, thin and soft, then swelling with emotion. I don’t have to search for words-- we’ve practiced this song many times so that the lyrics flow from my mouth. Pulling my consciousness and filling my unease with calm, practice soothes my nerves.  
  
All in all, the session is going well.  
  
But then, the bass drops out, followed by the guitar. I look to my side to see Tetsu making ‘stop’ motions at Yuki, at which Yuki lowers his sticks and muffles the cymbal with a skilled touch.  
  
At my questioning look, Tetsu simply says, “I heard something.” Tetsu walks closer to the amp and squats to get a better look at it. He strokes the neck of the bass, and plucks a string, then a chord. His lips purse.  
  
I frown, unable to hear anything unusual. I take a few steps closer and _then_ I notice a faint buzzing noise. I chew my lip and then back off. The technician comes in at Tetsu’s wave, and the two of them rush about, trying different actions and playing an assortment of chords. They speak in low, calm tones--much more relaxed than another situation might call for.  
  
I sigh, a touch frustrated. This could take a while.  
  
It looks to me as though my enjoyment has no choice but to take backstage. Looking away, I step away from the equipment and lean against the back wall. The lyrics filter out of my head as I allow my thoughts to wander. Trying to keep that calm, I chew my lip absent-mindedly, remembering an argument with Megumi early this morning--or was it yesterday? But even that thought passes through my mind like a cloud pushed away by a breeze. I close my eyes, and then open them again, watching Yuki and Ken chat spiritedly about whatever popped into Ken’s head. The two of them lean in towards each other, small smiles crinkling their eyes. I turn away from them, looking decisively towards the wall.  
  
The colors seem to swim together behind my eyes, whites and browns and blacks all pooling with the lights that make mirrors of glass. I think for a moment that I can see the spirit of music within the shadows there, but that thought leaves me in but a moment. Something in this reflective shard of a moment brings a memory back to me.  
  
Yes, I remember soft lips and startling, striking eyes, but these are all too real-- not some spirits’ blessing or curse. I chew my lip, remembering that night…  
  
Everything had been going so well until then-- or was I just ignoring the signs? I swallow, though my mouth has gone dry. I take a slow, deep breath, puzzled by my own reaction. Why do I feel this _thrill_ of excitement even at the memory of that moment? Just as soon as this emotion comes though, it vanishes, drowned by regret. Everything’s changed, spoilt. We can’t be those easy-going, close friends any longer-- not when Gackt has gone and done this. I breathe out, slowly, gauging my own instinctive reactions. Surely it can’t end here. Gackt and I are responsible adults-- a little mishap like this can’t ruin our friendship.  
  
 _But what if it happens again?_ a sly voice whispers behind that thought. Do I _want_ it to?  
  
A wild, flighty thought sends a sudden rush of adrenalin into my blood. A feeling of panic and disgust claws at my gut, choking me. A sour taste fills my mouth, and my stomach twists into knots. Fuck, what if Megumi found out?  
  
A moment passes, and reason returns. But how _could_ she? I’m sure as hell not going to tell her, and Gackt has no reason to. Besides, I initiated nothing. This thought is more than a little angry. Gackt acted on some drunken impulse, some old crush. He doesn’t want to ruin my marriage. It’s just some misunderstanding, right?  
  
But still, that hot yet icy feeling race up my back when I think of that night-- some part of me enjoyed that. _And what’s not to enjoy?_ The man is the picture of good fortune and androgynous beauty. Any person would feel the same, I try to reason. Was there something in my actions that led him to believe I wanted it?  
  
Oh, my life is complicated already…A feeling of helpless despair dries out my mouth, and upsets my stomach. I didn’t ask for this. I’d never ask for it.  
  
I shift uncomfortably against the wall, suddenly anxious to get away from these thoughts. I want a cigarette. I want to move-- I want to be doing _any_ thing other than thinking about _that_ man.  
  
I shuffle towards the door, pulling a cigarette out of the box as I go. Ken merely watches me go at first, and then follows. Silently, he nods, and I offer a tense smile.  
  
Now safely in the hall, I light the cigarette and inhale deeply. I close my eyes and try to refocus on the music we were playing only minutes before. It’s amazing, and it’s disconcerting. I don’t know what it means-- or what it’ll lead to…but…  
  
…all I can think of is blue.  
  
Recently, as the present situation proves, my favorite color brings thoughts of tight, smooth skin pulled gently over fine bones…here, there, a cautious smile or a strange look in those extraordinary, steel-blue eyes.  
  
I almost choke on my shortening cigarette.  
  
Closing my eyes and trying to return to the earlier, blissful _obliteration_ of before, I lean against the wall and sigh.  
  
Thankfully, a staff member knocks on the window, and the technician comes out and waves us back in. It’s back to work, I guess. I’m glad for it…for the distraction. I take a slow breath, and follow Ken back inside the studio room, ready to throw myself into work. As I take my place and begin again, I pull my hair from my face…hesitant.  
  
Even now, all that fills my mind is blue.


	8. broken glass, 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While recent events leaves Hyde distant and depressed, Hyde and Megumi’s relationship suffers. How will Hyde sort through his feelings? Hyde PoV.

 

“Hmm, this one looks good.” I twist the piece of pottery in my hand, admiring the unusual glaze. “What do you think?” I don’t take my eyes off the hand-sculpted bowl, knowing that Megumi is just at my side.  
  
“It’s great, honey,” she murmurs. “Why don’t we get it?” She brushes against my shoulder, and bends her neck to get a good look.  
  
I shift away from her, biting my lip. I look up, thinking aloud. “But I think he like more elegant things…maybe I should get him something less…useful.”  
  
Megumi sighs, exasperated. She tugs at her leather shoulder-bag and purses her lips. “This is the _last_ store we’re going to tonight, all right? I told the nanny we’d be back by seven, and I’ve extended it to eight and now nine.” Her voice is tight, annoyed. As I look upon her soft features and elegant frame, I wonder if (maybe) she’s tired.  
  
I stand there, looking at the light fixtures, wondering what had brought me here to begin with. Everything started out okay, light-hearted and almost fun while we were clothes shopping for our son. And then I got the idea to go shopping for that birthday present-- something I’d been putting off. So far, I’ve managed to thoroughly irritate Megumi by dragging her to nearly every high-end department store and specialty shop in the area.  
  
But, as usual, Megumi has been surprisingly tolerant of my selfishness. She takes a deep breath, and gently touches my arm. “Honey, is it _really_ that important that you find the perfect gift?” She doesn’t remove her fingers, though I’ve told her time and time again I don’t like to be romantic in _public._ “It’s just a birthday party. Why don’t we just give him some wine?”  
  
I bristle, though I’m not sure if it’s at her words, or because she’s still touching me. I brush her hand aside, and press my lips into a firm line. “Not _we_ , Megumi-dear. You don’t know Mister Takamoto,” I chide, trying to keep my voice pleasant, though I can hear the tension of my voice as easily as she can. I shift on my feet, and feel my shoulders stiffen. “He’s been very good to me and the band over the years. I want to give him something he’ll appreciate.” I run my finger across the even finish, thinking. “Besides, I gave him wine _last_ year.”  
  
I frown at the memory, recalling how another guest had given him the same brand of wine a few hours later. I had been glad that I at least had given Takamoto the wine _first_. I run a hand through my hair, irrationally irritated by my own feelings towards the memory.  
  
I look down at the piece of pottery still in my hands. “Please wrap this up, ma’am,” I gesture to the attendant.  
  
The woman smirks as she utters some words of thanks, babbling some polite small-talk as she begins the time-consuming act of wrapping. I’m glad when she stops talking; her whiny, high-pitched voice irritates me. However, it’s to be expected in a store this good; all the attendants talk like that in a perverse-- but traditional-- effort to be proper. At least they are all trained to wrap even the most oddly-shaped piece with skill, I console myself.  
  
My eyes wander around the store, away from the finely crafted crockery to a small section devoted to more modern, European-styled art. My eyes are drawn to this small display, and I walk over, leaving Megumi at the counter. My mind reaches out for a moment, lost in the light dancing here. It’s like a small symphony, and I relax for the short moment. Less foreboding thoughts can touch me now.  
  
A quick glance at the tags tells me that there’s nothing _original_ here. No, these baubles and sculptures are merely reproductions, though beautiful. Only the Japanese pottery and other traditional art are authentic in this little shop.  
  
I almost turn away, but something catches my eye…there, amid the plaster busts, is an elegant bauble of clear, flawless glass. Two abstract figures embrace one another, and I find my eyes fixed on the simple form. They seem so perfect, embracing and reaching out all at once. I pick the figure up, tilting it into the light, watching how they reflect and refract the dim beams. I flick my tongue out, and I am drawn to the blue figure in spite of its unimpressive surroundings. My eye cannot leave it.  
  
Even as I turn back to the ladies, it’s hard to look away. “This one, too, please.” I murmur, and move to set the figure on the counter. I trace a finger down the side of statuette.  
  
Megumi looks at the piece of glass with surprise, and the clerk eyes it with satisfaction. Greedy woman.  
  
I want to get away from them, to head outside and smoke a cigarette. Disappear in some dark alley, just melt into the nothingness. I move away from the two women and let my eye wander. The dreamy atmosphere speaks of stars and light and golden, glistening flecks of wealth and beauty. I can only see what lies before me, but I can feel what dies beneath. The flash point of sweet dreams fills me where I felt nothing else, and sweet surrender plies my eyelids open for only one instant. Now, standing here and feeling a dull chill, my eyes drift closed.  
  
A flash of subtly different color, a memory of a gaze a different blue-- an organic hue forged of tinted plastic and polymers inlaid against a honeyed brown so that Asian eyes gleam and speak a lie. There, in a star-struck feeling of melancholy, I feel my eyes snap open once again-- I haven’t even realized I was dreaming. I laugh slowly, silently. But this is not mirth, but lost, profound sadness.  
  
I chew on my lip, resigned to staying in the little boutique-- and the world-- a little longer yet.  
  


* * *

  
  
The ride home was almost pleasant. Megumi can be very charming and sweet when she wants to (particularly when she gets what she wants). The evening _could_ have been salvaged, but Megumi’s persistent cheerfulness just made my mood all the darker.  
  
I step out of the car and search for a lighter. I find the silver box, and pull a single cigarette from my pocket. With trembling hands, I fumble with the lighter, struggling to make it work properly. At last the flame flickers into existence, and I shove the now-lit cylinder into my mouth, opening the back car door to get the bags. For a moment, it seems as though I am alone.  
  
But Megumi is also here, shifting the many bags of clothes onto an arm. I watch her for a moment, thinking that she looks beautiful even now, moving softly and in precise movements. Every action is like a step in a dance, preformed to complement some unheard music that exists just for her.  
  
I watch her, wondering even as I think how lovely she is why I feel so far away. Like the statuette nested in wrapping paper that she carries, Megumi is filled with anonymous blue, remote and cheerless. Why I don’t feel a surge of love or even affection, I can’t be sure. I just watch her, like an uncommitted observer of a dance recital, rather than a devoted husband. I feel some icy, cold emotion swirling in my gut and in my mind, freezing any feelings I might have for my wife, my Megumi.  
  
My hands shake as I pick up a few bags, but I’m quick to turn around, lest Megumi notices. I shift the bags onto one arm, leaving the hand with my cigarette free. I close the door and move to lean against the wall in a small attempt to clear my mind, or at least my nerves.  
  
Turning now to the darkened sky, I breathe a sigh as I watch delicate tendrils of smoke waft into the night sky. Such fragile things. These poisonous tendrils disappear quickly and easily, but they’re beautiful. Even as I breathe the smoke in, I think about how it deadens my lungs, scars my throat, and yet I have no intentions of stopping. I flick the ash off, wondering not for the first time why I continue to smoke-- why I even started. Fuck it. I brush the thought aside.  
  
Through the haze of thought and growing depression, I realize that Megumi has already started for the door, slowly going up the stairs, obviously stalling for me. She looks like a figure on a stage, like her every move has been choreographed and planned.  
  
I toss the cigarette on the ground, and move away from the wall. It feels as though time has stalled; simple actions that I usually pay no mind seem monumental. I can feel my eyelashes flutter, and my lips part a tiny bit. I just watch the paper bag slide from lax fingers, not realizing what’s happening until it’s too late. My hands move to catch the box inside, but I’m too slow. The bag drops to the hard, unforgiving pavement with a muffled crash.  
  
I can’t think of the reason why, but my heart chills as this blue statue lingers in my mind for now. What has become of that blue? My eyes flutter close for a moment, and I squat down to assess the damage. I pick up the bag, and hear broken shards musically _crish_ together for all the paper. I open the bag to find pieces of blue glass, no longer recognizable as the embracing figures. I stay there, quietly looking at the mess. A dead, hallow feeling fills my mind, and my limbs feel cold, chilled. I stare.  
  
For a moment, I consider just leaving the bag behind like garbage, but I push this thought away. I _can’t_ leave it here on the street. I pick up the bag woodenly, and walk after my wife. I look with half-seeing eyes for the door, and we pass through the receiving room and into the elevator.  
  
Megumi turns around, and takes a few steps back towards me. She puts her delicate hand on my arm. “Oh, darling, is it all right?” Her tone is gentler still.  
  
“It’s broken.” I utter, my voice low and gravely. _Why_ did I drop the bag? I have barely even brought it home, and it’s already destroyed. I look away from my beautiful wife to avoid seeing her knowing eyes.  
  
“What a shame!” Megumi croons. She takes a step down towards me while I step up after her.  
  
“It doesn’t matter,” I mutter, my voice grating like broken glass. I can’t help but wince.“We didn’t _need_ it.” I don’t know why I say “we.” Megumi and I both know that I bought the figurine for myself, and not for anyone else; not for her, not for Takamoto and most certainly not for our son. I massage circles on my temple, trying to ease the overwhelming _feelings_ that wash over me. I want to forget it, to move away, but my thoughts only go in circles around it.  
  
We enter the building, following an old routine that needs no words.  
  
I feel abandoned, angry at myself for my carelessness, and somehow ashamed. Is this karma? Am I _punished_ for something…?  
  
Megumi looks at me while waiting for the elevator doors to open. Her eyes flicker to the illuminated numbers that indicate what floor the elevator is on, perhaps to gauge how much longer we have to wait. “Maybe they can order another one--”  
  
“We don’t _need_ it. I don’t want another one, Megumi.” I snap waspishly. I shoot a glare at her, irrationally angry. _Not at Megumi,_ I try to tell myself, but at life. At the situation. As I catch a glimpse of a shadow on the ground, I wonder if I’m simply frustrated.  
  
My thoughts and discontent makes me see everything in a haze.  
  
I don’t know why I’m taking it out on Megumi of all people-- she hardly deserves it. But she _must_ be angry with me, or at least frustrated. I can’t stand the pitying looks she gives me, the gentle, concerned _understanding._ If anyone’s to _understand_ what I’m feeling, it should be me, not my wife. _I_ certainly don’t. I want her to be mad-- to scold me for a wasted night, wasted money, just _something_ so that I’d have a reason to be angry with her.  
  
“Fine. _I’ll_ buy you another one,” she says softly, holding her chin up, all while looking at me ever-so tenderly.  
  
“No!” I whirl around, shoulders bunched together as though I could loom over her. “There will be no _other_ one.” I hiss, feeling a surge of powerful emotion, all hot and what I imagine fire looks like. The sensation leaves me like a gust of wind, and now I feel helpless. This only makes my temper grow.  
  
“Darling, don’t be ridiculous. I _want_ to!” She intones. We step out of the elevator and lapse into silence. From here, it’s a short walk to our penthouse door.  
  
I ring the doorbell, to let the nanny know we’re here rather than search for my key-card. A moment passes, and a feminine voice says “Welcome back,” over the intercom. A few seconds pass, and the door opens. I look up to see the nanny, Keiko, bow. I take my shoes off, shrug off my jacket and hang it on the hook by the door. All this takes but a few moments and does nothing to dispel my mood.  
  
The way Keiko stands just in front of the painting there on the wall makes her seem as though she’s coming out of the darkness. The impressionistic flower looks more like fox-fire in the dim light, making the nanny appear otherworldly. It seems like my fox-like assistant has played another trick on my senses, with a cool expression and amused eyes that inexplicably remind me of the swishing of a fox’s tail.“Welcome back, Hyde, Megumi.” She murmurs again, and genuinely smiles at my wife. “Hinata is already asleep in his room.” Her demeanor relaxes as she quietly relates the evening’s events.  
  
I nod and turn around the corner into the sitting room. I resist the urge to see if Hinata is really sleeping in his room, to make sure he’s there at all. That he’s _real_. The thought ghosts into my conscious unexpectedly, and I feel uneasy. To question reality so blatantly…I shift at once, perturbed.  
  
The world seems a cruel place, cold and lonely even when family is right alongside me. It occurs to me, as I sort out the broken glass into the proper container, that I simply don’t know a person who is truly happy.  
  
I close my eyes, trying to think of any moment where one of my friends (are they even friends, or only professional acquaintances?) were even _glad_. Suddenly I want to know that someone around me is happy.  
  
And yet, all I can think of are unhappy faces, concerns both tiny and large coming from all directions. Ken is still lamenting a grudge against a former girlfriend, Tetsu with his _endless_ standards-- when was does he even have time to calm down and enjoy himself? Has he ever? Yukihiro rarely complains to me, and if he does it’s over mundane things. The coffee machine breaking down, having to wake up early, staining his favorite shirt-- but even still, he hardly seems unworried.  
  
Is Megumi happy? Is she happy staying at home to raise our son, sacrificing her career? Most of her friends are still acting, and few of them have children. Is she content?  
  
I feel so useless, so selfish and unkind for not knowing.  
  
I comb through recent memories, trying to remember her smiling at me, or laughing at something we do or say, but there’s nothing. The only time I can remember her smile or laugh of late was when she was with our son, our Hinata. While she was playing with him, unaware of my presence. Although she smiles at me in greeting, when has she laughed?  
  
Moreover, when did I last laugh? Or enjoy something? When did I last have a break?  
  
Thinking of this, I push aside my doubts and give in to my desire to confirm Hinata’s existence. I get off my knees, and shuffle through the hallway to where Hinata should be sleeping. The hallway is dark and quiet, and Hinata’s door is partially opened, as per usual. He never sleeps with the door shut, not even when he’s in Megumi or my room.  
  
I stay there in the hall, thinking. I want only good things for him. I don’t want him to feel this overwhelming sadness, this helpless frustration. My lips lift in an awkward smile, thinking of my lyrics. “I hate children who don’t know pain, they hit you until your head is broken” indeed-- but not _my_ kid.  
  
Kids are terrible yet lovely-- like angels. At any moment they inspire awe in me, if only because their small existence confuses me. One moment, they’re perfect sweethearts, saying “I love you” with such beautiful sincerity, and then the next they furiously scream and cry. For what? For attention, toys or just _because_ they’re tired, hungry or grumpy.  
  
I can’t remember what it was like to _feel_ as a child, can’t remember how I expressed myself before I understood words well enough.  
  
I push the door a little further open and ease through. My eyes go straight to Hinata’s tiny face, solemn and gentle in slumber, and I feel such agonizing sadness that I want to look away. I stand there, watching my little boy sleep from the hall when I feel a hand on my back.  
  
“You all right, honey?” Megumi murmurs, eyes soothing yet tired. Her sweet face is empty of hatred or irritation, and her brows draw closer in graceful, lovely anxiety for me. “Why don’t we go to bed?”  
  
I reply without thinking. “Don’t _coddle_ me, Megumi,” I mutter, my voice dark. I feel so restless, like I’m a mess of pent-up, frustrated energy. I want to hit something, to scream out loud-- maybe break something. I stalk down the hallway to the bathroom.  
  
“Darling,” Megumi scolds as I squeeze the toothpaste with more force than necessary. “Don’t worry about it, I’ll get you another one. Let’s just calm down and spend a nice quiet evening at home.” She puts small hands on my back, gently rubbing circles on my tight and pained muscles.  
  
I jerk away from my wife and glare. I can’t stand the thought of her touching me. “I _told_ you, Megumi, I don’t want another one.” My voice is quiet, cold.  
  
Megumi’s seemingly unending patience and affectionate pity stops here. She frowns at me and gives a clipped reply. “You don’t need to get so worked up over such a little thing! It’s not worth the energy.” Her eyes, as she gives me one last look, are dark with that long-awaited vexation. She primly leaves with another small frown, at last giving me space.  
  
I scrub at my teeth vigorously, wondering if my gums will bleed. I finish my nightly ritual in silence, but I remain in a foul mood. I hate today.  
  
I pass Megumi in the hall. She’s holding a photo album to her chest-- she must have been looking at it. Her expression is guarded, hiding some emotion I can’t guess. She disappears into the bathroom, and won’t come out for several minutes. I wonder peevishly if she’s sulking or crying, and sullenly hope for the latter.  
  
I go to my room and sprawl into a cushy chair. I tear through a magazine I’d left there earlier but am unable to relax. I stare at the glossy pages, trying futilely to let go of the mess of emotions I feel.  
  
Some minutes later, Megumi appears in my doorway, a cool expression on her face. “Feel better?” she purses her lips together, as though contemplating. A silent, heavy moment passes. “No?”  
  
“Damn it, Megumi, just leave it alone!”  
  
Icy now, she looks almost like the princess of snow. Her disdain for me and my behavior is clear on her precious, porcelain face. Her cherubic mouth opens to admonish me once again. “You’re acting so strangely! It’s not even anything important and you get yourself all worked up. It’s not natural.” Megumi approaches the chair, and makes to touch me again.  
  
“Megumi,” my voice is low, quiet. “Don’t do this. Not now.” I close my magazine and give her a look. “I can’t stand it when you do this.”  
  
“Do what?” Megumi cries, raising her chin angrily. “I’m _trying_ to help you! And you just push me away.” A few years ago she may have cried, or at least been upset, but Megumi has matured since then. Since she’s become a mother. “You’re acting so _strange_ , Hyde. I want to know what’s going on!”  
  
“Nothing’s going on,” I say evenly, but am unable to keep the anger from clipping my words. “Megumi, _nothing_ is wrong. I’m just-- just stressed.” I try to make my voice light, unconcerned, but it falters.  
  
 _I_ don’t even know what’s wrong with me.  
  
“Are you sick?” Megumi asks, her voice filled with dozens of unsaid accusations. “Maybe you should take a break.” She touches my shoulder again, but steps back when I flinch away. I regret my action, but the feeling is swept away. Why should _I_ feel guilty? It irritates me to think that _she_ akts like the wounded party when _she_ is always the one to impede on my time and money. She only takes notice of my actions towards her when she perceives it as negative.  
  
Megumi looks stricken and hurt and I only meet her gaze, stubborn. I’m not surprised when Megumi stalks out. I hear her bedroom door close firmly on the other end of the hall.  
  
With my last living, caring connection extinguished, I feel like screaming and crying at the same time. I bite my lip, and give the chair a sound punch. I stand up, turn off my light, but the room is still illuminated-- the hall light is still on. I spring to my feet, intent on turning the light out.  
  
I reach the light switch and press it in. I stare at the wall, only to find myself sliding to the ground, huddling against the wall, with my knees to my chest. I roll my neck back, touching my head to the wall. Everything seems so hopelessly empty, so futile. I don’t understand this mood I’m in, but I don’t like it any more than Megumi does.  
  
I contemplate going to Megumi’s room, knocking on her door and apologizing. But my feet don’t move, and I can’t think of anything to say to her.  
  
I stare ahead blankly, trying to pull my thoughts back into focus. I’m so absorbed in this task that I don’t notice the small figure approaching me, like a tiny child of light.  
  
“Daddy,” Hinata mumbles, rubbing at his eyes. “Why are you on the floor?” His high-pitched voice is muffled with sleep. He scrunches his nose, clearly puzzled by my behavior. “Why’d the light go out?” I realize then, that only the floor globes (which Megumi affectionately calls our “night lights”) remain aglow.  
  
“Oh, baby,” I sigh. I shake my head, and my hair partially covers my face. I want to open my arms and pull him into my lap, but I don’t. I just clench my hands and flop them to my side. “Did I wake you up?” I ask, inwardly cringing at the pleading, lost sound of my own voice.  
  
“No,” Hinata says, drawing the syllable out and shaking his head slowly. “I can’t sleep. You too?” Hinata squats down next to me. “Are you sad?” His child’s eyes know the answer to that.  
  
I reach out to brush Hinata’s hair out of his face. I smile at the state of his hair. At last I let my knees relax, and I stretch out towards him.  
  
Hinata chews on his lip, and _looks_ at me, a wordless plea for a hug. He’s still a baby, after all. _My_ baby.  
  
I smile at my son and wonder for the umpteenth time if I’m doing _good enough_ as a father. Do I see my son enough, do I talk to him about the right things? I look at him with wonder, this tiny thing that moves and thinks and feels things that I don’t expect of him. Maybe I just don’t know what to do with children or what to expect of them.  
  
I finally extend my arms, and he steps with joy altogether surprising for a supposedly sleepy child. Finding a nook in my arms and snuggling close, he peers up at me with sweet glee. “Do you wanna play video games?” he chirps.  
  
I laugh at Hinata’s hopeful words, though it’s a sad, half-hearted noise. While I’m not surprised, I am touched that Hinata holds me and my time in such high regard, despite the time I spend away. “Mmm…” I reply thoughtfully, knowing that an outright ‘no’ would irritate him into wakefulness just as much as the loud, interactive videogame. “Well, that sounds like fun, but you know what? I think that frog Mommy got you sounds even better.”  
  
Hinata looks unconvinced. “But I--”  
  
I press my lips to his warm, soft cheek, and wrap my arms around his chest-- all the better for carrying. “But we have to be _very_ quiet. We can’t wake Mommy, okay?” I whisper into his ear, and he gives a triumphant (but reasonably quiet) “OKAY!”  
  
“Okay, Iichan [1] , let’s go and find Mr. Frog…” I make my way carefully to his bedroom, _trying_ to both adjust Hinata’s weight to my body and not just my arms, while simultaneously trying not to make noise. Gingerly, I toe the door open, sure to pad quietly to Hinata’s bed.  
  
I lean into my child at last, depositing him on the futon lightly, tenderly running my hand through his hair as I ease away and toward the corner where the small, plush toy lays. With amusement, I snatch up the soft toy, tossing him from hand to hand.  
  
Hinata watches solemnly at first, but then he grins and stretches his arms, wriggling under his covers as he leans closer.  
  
I smile and make the frog leap through the air and onto Hinata’s pillow. “Who’s this!” I make my voice lively with high notes and strange formations of syllables, playing with my tongue and speech for a truly appreciative audience. It’s delightful. “Who’s this in my bed, ribbet?” I croak, then bringing the plushy closer to Hinata’s ear.  
  
“It’s _my_ bed!!” Hinata crows, none-too quietly.  
  
I give Hinata a look. _Where has that promise to be quiet gone?_ I ask myself. I’m amused by Hinata, even as I try and keep a serious expression.  
  
“Hinata’s bed,” he says, somewhat softer. He grabs for Mr. Frog and pulls him into his arms.  
  
I smile softly and wonder why even now, I feel this aching in my heart. Even with my dear, baby boy nearby, even with Megumi’s gentle concern, I hoard a shadow in my heart…an ache that will not give way to kind intentions or small-but-dear ones.  
  
Hinata, oblivious to my grim expression, burbles happily at Mr. Frog. He ribbets quiet instructions for the plushy, peacefully unaware of my wandering feelings. “Come here,” he tells the toy, and he buries his cherubic face in the soft, velveteen fabric.  
  
I take this chance to close the gab between us, lying next to Hinata and pulling his comforter close. “Mm, nice and snug,” I note, petting Hinata’s hair as I say so.  
  
Some minutes pass as Hinata squirms to get comfortable, a ball of energy as I try and keep him occupied. He is like a tiny bird, hopping from one position to the next with little regard to conventional space.  
  
“Okay., you wanna hear a bedtime story? Alright…” I rake my mind for something to tell my firstborn. Without my meaning to say it, my mouth opens, “Once, there was the Dark…” And Hinata tightens against me, surely intrigued by this unexpected beginning.  
  
“Really?” He grips Mr. Frog close to his chest, and I sense his excited surprise at once. “The Dark?” His eyes are large and round…  
  
I wonder too late if a story such as this might scare him. But I nod slowly. “Mm-hm. And you know what? The Dark is a funny thing…”  
  
Pushing his toes into the futon to raise his head, Hinata looks into my face. “It’s all _black!_ ”  
  
I shrug and look thoughtfully to the ceiling. “No…sometimes it’s blue…”  
  
As Hinata settles, I wind a story into his heart, full of imaginative places and sweet words. Finally, as the world loses its reality for my little one, I bring the story to a close. Now, at long last, my child sleeps.  
  
Leaning into him, I murmur one final farewell. I lay these for a while yet, until my sad heart wakes me farther, and my eyes peel away from the sweet dark.  
  
I cannot stay here…  
  
I put one hand to Hinata’s soft cheek, cover him fully and plant one dry kiss on his crown.  
  
I’m away and into the night before my mind can truly grasp it--  
  
\--and beneath the moon at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Iichan as a nickname for Hinata. There was a girl called Hitomi with whom I was well acquainted-- and her family nicknamed her Ii-chan instead of Hi-chan, with the added bonus of Ii meaning “good.” So, aside from being a shortened name for the baby, they’re calling him a good kid. Cute, hm?  
> It’s also typical to add “chan” for toddlers, even boys. For instance, take Kochan for Kōzo. Unfortunately (for me), the boy children will only tolerate this while they’re toddlers, it seems…alas. It’s more fun to call a boy Kochan instead of Kōzo-kun… The girls, on the other hand, seem to allow their friends and family to call them by their nicknames for their whole lives.


	9. broken glass, 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hyde takes Megumi along while he looks for the perfect present…already stressed, their relationship takes a turn for tighter confrontations.

 

“Hmm, this one looks good.” I twist the piece of pottery in my hand, admiring the unusual glaze. “What do you think?” I don’t take my eyes off the hand-sculpted bowl, knowing that Megumi is just at my side.  
  
“It’s great, honey,” she murmurs. “Why don’t we get it?” She brushes against my shoulder, and bends her neck to get a good look.  
  
I shift away from her, biting my lip. I look up, thinking aloud. “But I think he like more elegant things…maybe I should get him something less…useful.”  
  
Megumi sighs, exasperated. She tugs at her leather shoulder-bag and purses her lips. “This is the _last_ store we’re going to tonight, all right? I told the nanny we’d be back by seven, and I’ve extended it to eight and now nine.” Her voice is tight, annoyed. As I look upon her soft features and elegant frame, I wonder if (maybe) she’s tired.  
  
I stand there, looking at the light fixtures, wondering what had brought me here to begin with. Everything started out okay, light-hearted and almost fun while we were clothes shopping for our son. And then I got the idea to go shopping for that birthday present-- something I’d been putting off. So far, I’ve managed to thoroughly irritate Megumi by dragging her to nearly every high-end department store and specialty shop in the area.  
  
But, as usual, Megumi has been surprisingly tolerant of my selfishness. She takes a deep breath, and gently touches my arm. “Honey, is it _really_ that important that you find the perfect gift?” She doesn’t remove her fingers, though I’ve told her time and time again I don’t like to be romantic in _public._ “It’s just a birthday party. Why don’t we just give him some wine?”  
  
I bristle, though I’m not sure if it’s at her words, or because she’s still touching me. I brush her hand aside, and press my lips into a firm line. “Not _we_ , Megumi-dear. You don’t know Mister Takamoto,” I chide, trying to keep my voice pleasant, though I can hear the tension of my voice as easily as she can. I shift on my feet, and feel my shoulders stiffen. “He’s been very good to me and the band over the years. I want to give him something he’ll appreciate.” I run my finger across the even finish, thinking. “Besides, I gave him wine _last_ year.”  
  
I frown at the memory, recalling how another guest had given him the same brand of wine a few hours later. I had been glad that I at least had given Takamoto the wine _first_. I run a hand through my hair, irrationally irritated by my own feelings towards the memory.  
  
I look down at the piece of pottery still in my hands. “Please wrap this up, ma’am,” I gesture to the attendant.  
  
The woman smirks as she utters some words of thanks, babbling some polite small-talk as she begins the time-consuming act of wrapping. I’m glad when she stops talking; her whiny, high-pitched voice irritates me. However, it’s to be expected in a store this good; all the attendants talk like that in a perverse-- but traditional-- effort to be proper. At least they are all trained to wrap even the most oddly-shaped piece with skill, I console myself.  
  
My eyes wander around the store, away from the finely crafted crockery to a small section devoted to more modern, European-styled art. My eyes are drawn to this small display, and I walk over, leaving Megumi at the counter. My mind reaches out for a moment, lost in the light dancing here. It’s like a small symphony, and I relax for the short moment. Less foreboding thoughts can touch me now.  
  
A quick glance at the tags tells me that there’s nothing _original_ here. No, these baubles and sculptures are merely reproductions, though beautiful. Only the Japanese pottery and other traditional art are authentic in this little shop.  
  
I almost turn away, but something catches my eye…there, amid the plaster busts, is an elegant bauble of clear, flawless glass. Two abstract figures embrace one another, and I find my eyes fixed on the simple form. They seem so perfect, embracing and reaching out all at once. I pick the figure up, tilting it into the light, watching how they reflect and refract the dim beams. I flick my tongue out, and I am drawn to the blue figure in spite of its unimpressive surroundings. My eye cannot leave it.  
  
Even as I turn back to the ladies, it’s hard to look away. “This one, too, please.” I murmur, and move to set the figure on the counter. I trace a finger down the side of statuette.  
  
Megumi looks at the piece of glass with surprise, and the clerk eyes it with satisfaction. Greedy woman.  
  
I want to get away from them, to head outside and smoke a cigarette. Disappear in some dark alley, just melt into the nothingness. I move away from the two women and let my eye wander. The dreamy atmosphere speaks of stars and light and golden, glistening flecks of wealth and beauty. I can only see what lies before me, but I can feel what dies beneath. The flash point of sweet dreams fills me where I felt nothing else, and sweet surrender plies my eyelids open for only one instant. Now, standing here and feeling a dull chill, my eyes drift closed.  
  
A flash of subtly different color, a memory of a gaze a different blue-- an organic hue forged of tinted plastic and polymers inlaid against a honeyed brown so that Asian eyes gleam and speak a lie. There, in a star-struck feeling of melancholy, I feel my eyes snap open once again-- I haven’t even realized I was dreaming. I laugh slowly, silently. But this is not mirth, but lost, profound sadness.  
  
I chew on my lip, resigned to staying in the little boutique-- and the world-- a little longer yet.  
  


* * *

  
  
The ride home was almost pleasant. Megumi can be very charming and sweet when she wants to (particularly when she gets what she wants). The evening _could_ have been salvaged, but Megumi’s persistent cheerfulness just made my mood all the darker.  
  
I step out of the car and search for a lighter. I find the silver box, and pull a single cigarette from my pocket. With trembling hands, I fumble with the lighter, struggling to make it work properly. At last the flame flickers into existence, and I shove the now-lit cylinder into my mouth, opening the back car door to get the bags. For a moment, it seems as though I am alone.  
  
But Megumi is also here, shifting the many bags of clothes onto an arm. I watch her for a moment, thinking that she looks beautiful even now, moving softly and in precise movements. Every action is like a step in a dance, preformed to complement some unheard music that exists just for her.  
  
I watch her, wondering even as I think how lovely she is why I feel so far away. Like the statuette nested in wrapping paper that she carries, Megumi is filled with anonymous blue, remote and cheerless. Why I don’t feel a surge of love or even affection, I can’t be sure. I just watch her, like an uncommitted observer of a dance recital, rather than a devoted husband. I feel some icy, cold emotion swirling in my gut and in my mind, freezing any feelings I might have for my wife, my Megumi.  
  
My hands shake as I pick up a few bags, but I’m quick to turn around, lest Megumi notices. I shift the bags onto one arm, leaving the hand with my cigarette free. I close the door and move to lean against the wall in a small attempt to clear my mind, or at least my nerves.  
  
Turning now to the darkened sky, I breathe a sigh as I watch delicate tendrils of smoke waft into the night sky. Such fragile things. These poisonous tendrils disappear quickly and easily, but they’re beautiful. Even as I breathe the smoke in, I think about how it deadens my lungs, scars my throat, and yet I have no intentions of stopping. I flick the ash off, wondering not for the first time why I continue to smoke-- why I even started. Fuck it. I brush the thought aside.  
  
Through the haze of thought and growing depression, I realize that Megumi has already started for the door, slowly going up the stairs, obviously stalling for me. She looks like a figure on a stage, like her every move has been choreographed and planned.  
  
I toss the cigarette on the ground, and move away from the wall. It feels as though time has stalled; simple actions that I usually pay no mind seem monumental. I can feel my eyelashes flutter, and my lips part a tiny bit. I just watch the paper bag slide from lax fingers, not realizing what’s happening until it’s too late. My hands move to catch the box inside, but I’m too slow. The bag drops to the hard, unforgiving pavement with a muffled crash.  
  
I can’t think of the reason why, but my heart chills as this blue statue lingers in my mind for now. What has become of that blue? My eyes flutter close for a moment, and I squat down to assess the damage. I pick up the bag, and hear broken shards musically _crish_ together for all the paper. I open the bag to find pieces of blue glass, no longer recognizable as the embracing figures. I stay there, quietly looking at the mess. A dead, hallow feeling fills my mind, and my limbs feel cold, chilled. I stare.  
  
For a moment, I consider just leaving the bag behind like garbage, but I push this thought away. I _can’t_ leave it here on the street. I pick up the bag woodenly, and walk after my wife. I look with half-seeing eyes for the door, and we pass through the receiving room and into the elevator.  
  
Megumi turns around, and takes a few steps back towards me. She puts her delicate hand on my arm. “Oh, darling, is it all right?” Her tone is gentler still.  
  
“It’s broken.” I utter, my voice low and gravely. _Why_ did I drop the bag? I have barely even brought it home, and it’s already destroyed. I look away from my beautiful wife to avoid seeing her knowing eyes.  
  
“What a shame!” Megumi croons. She takes a step down towards me while I step up after her.  
  
“It doesn’t matter,” I mutter, my voice grating like broken glass. I can’t help but wince.“We didn’t _need_ it.” I don’t know why I say “we.” Megumi and I both know that I bought the figurine for myself, and not for anyone else; not for her, not for Takamoto and most certainly not for our son. I massage circles on my temple, trying to ease the overwhelming _feelings_ that wash over me. I want to forget it, to move away, but my thoughts only go in circles around it.  
  
We enter the building, following an old routine that needs no words.  
  
I feel abandoned, angry at myself for my carelessness, and somehow ashamed. Is this karma? Am I _punished_ for something…?  
  
Megumi looks at me while waiting for the elevator doors to open. Her eyes flicker to the illuminated numbers that indicate what floor the elevator is on, perhaps to gauge how much longer we have to wait. “Maybe they can order another one--”  
  
“We don’t _need_ it. I don’t want another one, Megumi.” I snap waspishly. I shoot a glare at her, irrationally angry. _Not at Megumi,_ I try to tell myself, but at life. At the situation. As I catch a glimpse of a shadow on the ground, I wonder if I’m simply frustrated.  
  
My thoughts and discontent makes me see everything in a haze.  
  
I don’t know why I’m taking it out on Megumi of all people-- she hardly deserves it. But she _must_ be angry with me, or at least frustrated. I can’t stand the pitying looks she gives me, the gentle, concerned _understanding._ If anyone’s to _understand_ what I’m feeling, it should be me, not my wife. _I_ certainly don’t. I want her to be mad-- to scold me for a wasted night, wasted money, just _something_ so that I’d have a reason to be angry with her.  
  
“Fine. _I’ll_ buy you another one,” she says softly, holding her chin up, all while looking at me ever-so tenderly.  
  
“No!” I whirl around, shoulders bunched together as though I could loom over her. “There will be no _other_ one.” I hiss, feeling a surge of powerful emotion, all hot and what I imagine fire looks like. The sensation leaves me like a gust of wind, and now I feel helpless. This only makes my temper grow.  
  
“Darling, don’t be ridiculous. I _want_ to!” She intones. We step out of the elevator and lapse into silence. From here, it’s a short walk to our penthouse door.  
  
I ring the doorbell, to let the nanny know we’re here rather than search for my key-card. A moment passes, and a feminine voice says “Welcome back,” over the intercom. A few seconds pass, and the door opens. I look up to see the nanny, Keiko, bow. I take my shoes off, shrug off my jacket and hang it on the hook by the door. All this takes but a few moments and does nothing to dispel my mood.  
  
The way Keiko stands just in front of the painting there on the wall makes her seem as though she’s coming out of the darkness. The impressionistic flower looks more like fox-fire in the dim light, making the nanny appear otherworldly. It seems like my fox-like assistant has played another trick on my senses, with a cool expression and amused eyes that inexplicably remind me of the swishing of a fox’s tail.“Welcome back, Hyde, Megumi.” She murmurs again, and genuinely smiles at my wife. “Hinata is already asleep in his room.” Her demeanor relaxes as she quietly relates the evening’s events.  
  
I nod and turn around the corner into the sitting room. I resist the urge to see if Hinata is really sleeping in his room, to make sure he’s there at all. That he’s _real_. The thought ghosts into my conscious unexpectedly, and I feel uneasy. To question reality so blatantly…I shift at once, perturbed.  
  
The world seems a cruel place, cold and lonely even when family is right alongside me. It occurs to me, as I sort out the broken glass into the proper container, that I simply don’t know a person who is truly happy.  
  
I close my eyes, trying to think of any moment where one of my friends (are they even friends, or only professional acquaintances?) were even _glad_. Suddenly I want to know that someone around me is happy.  
  
And yet, all I can think of are unhappy faces, concerns both tiny and large coming from all directions. Ken is still lamenting a grudge against a former girlfriend, Tetsu with his _endless_ standards-- when was does he even have time to calm down and enjoy himself? Has he ever? Yukihiro rarely complains to me, and if he does it’s over mundane things. The coffee machine breaking down, having to wake up early, staining his favorite shirt-- but even still, he hardly seems unworried.  
  
Is Megumi happy? Is she happy staying at home to raise our son, sacrificing her career? Most of her friends are still acting, and few of them have children. Is she content?  
  
I feel so useless, so selfish and unkind for not knowing.  
  
I comb through recent memories, trying to remember her smiling at me, or laughing at something we do or say, but there’s nothing. The only time I can remember her smile or laugh of late was when she was with our son, our Hinata. While she was playing with him, unaware of my presence. Although she smiles at me in greeting, when has she laughed?  
  
Moreover, when did I last laugh? Or enjoy something? When did I last have a break?  
  
Thinking of this, I push aside my doubts and give in to my desire to confirm Hinata’s existence. I get off my knees, and shuffle through the hallway to where Hinata should be sleeping. The hallway is dark and quiet, and Hinata’s door is partially opened, as per usual. He never sleeps with the door shut, not even when he’s in Megumi or my room.  
  
I stay there in the hall, thinking. I want only good things for him. I don’t want him to feel this overwhelming sadness, this helpless frustration. My lips lift in an awkward smile, thinking of my lyrics. “I hate children who don’t know pain, they hit you until your head is broken” indeed-- but not _my_ kid.  
  
Kids are terrible yet lovely-- like angels. At any moment they inspire awe in me, if only because their small existence confuses me. One moment, they’re perfect sweethearts, saying “I love you” with such beautiful sincerity, and then the next they furiously scream and cry. For what? For attention, toys or just _because_ they’re tired, hungry or grumpy.  
  
I can’t remember what it was like to _feel_ as a child, can’t remember how I expressed myself before I understood words well enough.  
  
I push the door a little further open and ease through. My eyes go straight to Hinata’s tiny face, solemn and gentle in slumber, and I feel such agonizing sadness that I want to look away. I stand there, watching my little boy sleep from the hall when I feel a hand on my back.  
  
“You all right, honey?” Megumi murmurs, eyes soothing yet tired. Her sweet face is empty of hatred or irritation, and her brows draw closer in graceful, lovely anxiety for me. “Why don’t we go to bed?”  
  
I reply without thinking. “Don’t _coddle_ me, Megumi,” I mutter, my voice dark. I feel so restless, like I’m a mess of pent-up, frustrated energy. I want to hit something, to scream out loud-- maybe break something. I stalk down the hallway to the bathroom.  
  
“Darling,” Megumi scolds as I squeeze the toothpaste with more force than necessary. “Don’t worry about it, I’ll get you another one. Let’s just calm down and spend a nice quiet evening at home.” She puts small hands on my back, gently rubbing circles on my tight and pained muscles.  
  
I jerk away from my wife and glare. I can’t stand the thought of her touching me. “I _told_ you, Megumi, I don’t want another one.” My voice is quiet, cold.  
  
Megumi’s seemingly unending patience and affectionate pity stops here. She frowns at me and gives a clipped reply. “You don’t need to get so worked up over such a little thing! It’s not worth the energy.” Her eyes, as she gives me one last look, are dark with that long-awaited vexation. She primly leaves with another small frown, at last giving me space.  
  
I scrub at my teeth vigorously, wondering if my gums will bleed. I finish my nightly ritual in silence, but I remain in a foul mood. I hate today.  
  
I pass Megumi in the hall. She’s holding a photo album to her chest-- she must have been looking at it. Her expression is guarded, hiding some emotion I can’t guess. She disappears into the bathroom, and won’t come out for several minutes. I wonder peevishly if she’s sulking or crying, and sullenly hope for the latter.  
  
I go to my room and sprawl into a cushy chair. I tear through a magazine I’d left there earlier but am unable to relax. I stare at the glossy pages, trying futilely to let go of the mess of emotions I feel.  
  
Some minutes later, Megumi appears in my doorway, a cool expression on her face. “Feel better?” she purses her lips together, as though contemplating. A silent, heavy moment passes. “No?”  
  
“Damn it, Megumi, just leave it alone!”  
  
Icy now, she looks almost like the princess of snow. Her disdain for me and my behavior is clear on her precious, porcelain face. Her cherubic mouth opens to admonish me once again. “You’re acting so strangely! It’s not even anything important and you get yourself all worked up. It’s not natural.” Megumi approaches the chair, and makes to touch me again.  
  
“Megumi,” my voice is low, quiet. “Don’t do this. Not now.” I close my magazine and give her a look. “I can’t stand it when you do this.”  
  
“Do what?” Megumi cries, raising her chin angrily. “I’m _trying_ to help you! And you just push me away.” A few years ago she may have cried, or at least been upset, but Megumi has matured since then. Since she’s become a mother. “You’re acting so _strange_ , Hyde. I want to know what’s going on!”  
  
“Nothing’s going on,” I say evenly, but am unable to keep the anger from clipping my words. “Megumi, _nothing_ is wrong. I’m just-- just stressed.” I try to make my voice light, unconcerned, but it falters.  
  
 _I_ don’t even know what’s wrong with me.  
  
“Are you sick?” Megumi asks, her voice filled with dozens of unsaid accusations. “Maybe you should take a break.” She touches my shoulder again, but steps back when I flinch away. I regret my action, but the feeling is swept away. Why should _I_ feel guilty? It irritates me to think that _she_ akts like the wounded party when _she_ is always the one to impede on my time and money. She only takes notice of my actions towards her when she perceives it as negative.  
  
Megumi looks stricken and hurt and I only meet her gaze, stubborn. I’m not surprised when Megumi stalks out. I hear her bedroom door close firmly on the other end of the hall.  
  
With my last living, caring connection extinguished, I feel like screaming and crying at the same time. I bite my lip, and give the chair a sound punch. I stand up, turn off my light, but the room is still illuminated-- the hall light is still on. I spring to my feet, intent on turning the light out.  
  
I reach the light switch and press it in. I stare at the wall, only to find myself sliding to the ground, huddling against the wall, with my knees to my chest. I roll my neck back, touching my head to the wall. Everything seems so hopelessly empty, so futile. I don’t understand this mood I’m in, but I don’t like it any more than Megumi does.  
  
I contemplate going to Megumi’s room, knocking on her door and apologizing. But my feet don’t move, and I can’t think of anything to say to her.  
  
I stare ahead blankly, trying to pull my thoughts back into focus. I’m so absorbed in this task that I don’t notice the small figure approaching me, like a tiny child of light.  
  
“Daddy,” Hinata mumbles, rubbing at his eyes. “Why are you on the floor?” His high-pitched voice is muffled with sleep. He scrunches his nose, clearly puzzled by my behavior. “Why’d the light go out?” I realize then, that only the floor globes (which Megumi affectionately calls our “night lights”) remain aglow.  
  
“Oh, baby,” I sigh. I shake my head, and my hair partially covers my face. I want to open my arms and pull him into my lap, but I don’t. I just clench my hands and flop them to my side. “Did I wake you up?” I ask, inwardly cringing at the pleading, lost sound of my own voice.  
  
“No,” Hinata says, drawing the syllable out and shaking his head slowly. “I can’t sleep. You too?” Hinata squats down next to me. “Are you sad?” His child’s eyes know the answer to that.  
  
I reach out to brush Hinata’s hair out of his face. I smile at the state of his hair. At last I let my knees relax, and I stretch out towards him.  
  
Hinata chews on his lip, and _looks_ at me, a wordless plea for a hug. He’s still a baby, after all. _My_ baby.  
  
I smile at my son and wonder for the umpteenth time if I’m doing _good enough_ as a father. Do I see my son enough, do I talk to him about the right things? I look at him with wonder, this tiny thing that moves and thinks and feels things that I don’t expect of him. Maybe I just don’t know what to do with children or what to expect of them.  
  
I finally extend my arms, and he steps with joy altogether surprising for a supposedly sleepy child. Finding a nook in my arms and snuggling close, he peers up at me with sweet glee. “Do you wanna play video games?” he chirps.  
  
I laugh at Hinata’s hopeful words, though it’s a sad, half-hearted noise. While I’m not surprised, I am touched that Hinata holds me and my time in such high regard, despite the time I spend away. “Mmm…” I reply thoughtfully, knowing that an outright ‘no’ would irritate him into wakefulness just as much as the loud, interactive videogame. “Well, that sounds like fun, but you know what? I think that frog Mommy got you sounds even better.”  
  
Hinata looks unconvinced. “But I--”  
  
I press my lips to his warm, soft cheek, and wrap my arms around his chest-- all the better for carrying. “But we have to be _very_ quiet. We can’t wake Mommy, okay?” I whisper into his ear, and he gives a triumphant (but reasonably quiet) “OKAY!”  
  
“Okay, Iichan [1] , let’s go and find Mr. Frog…” I make my way carefully to his bedroom, _trying_ to both adjust Hinata’s weight to my body and not just my arms, while simultaneously trying not to make noise. Gingerly, I toe the door open, sure to pad quietly to Hinata’s bed.  
  
I lean into my child at last, depositing him on the futon lightly, tenderly running my hand through his hair as I ease away and toward the corner where the small, plush toy lays. With amusement, I snatch up the soft toy, tossing him from hand to hand.  
  
Hinata watches solemnly at first, but then he grins and stretches his arms, wriggling under his covers as he leans closer.  
  
I smile and make the frog leap through the air and onto Hinata’s pillow. “Who’s this!” I make my voice lively with high notes and strange formations of syllables, playing with my tongue and speech for a truly appreciative audience. It’s delightful. “Who’s this in my bed, ribbet?” I croak, then bringing the plushy closer to Hinata’s ear.  
  
“It’s _my_ bed!!” Hinata crows, none-too quietly.  
  
I give Hinata a look. _Where has that promise to be quiet gone?_ I ask myself. I’m amused by Hinata, even as I try and keep a serious expression.  
  
“Hinata’s bed,” he says, somewhat softer. He grabs for Mr. Frog and pulls him into his arms.  
  
I smile softly and wonder why even now, I feel this aching in my heart. Even with my dear, baby boy nearby, even with Megumi’s gentle concern, I hoard a shadow in my heart…an ache that will not give way to kind intentions or small-but-dear ones.  
  
Hinata, oblivious to my grim expression, burbles happily at Mr. Frog. He ribbets quiet instructions for the plushy, peacefully unaware of my wandering feelings. “Come here,” he tells the toy, and he buries his cherubic face in the soft, velveteen fabric.  
  
I take this chance to close the gab between us, lying next to Hinata and pulling his comforter close. “Mm, nice and snug,” I note, petting Hinata’s hair as I say so.  
  
Some minutes pass as Hinata squirms to get comfortable, a ball of energy as I try and keep him occupied. He is like a tiny bird, hopping from one position to the next with little regard to conventional space.  
  
“Okay., you wanna hear a bedtime story? Alright…” I rake my mind for something to tell my firstborn. Without my meaning to say it, my mouth opens, “Once, there was the Dark…” And Hinata tightens against me, surely intrigued by this unexpected beginning.  
  
“Really?” He grips Mr. Frog close to his chest, and I sense his excited surprise at once. “The Dark?” His eyes are large and round…  
  
I wonder too late if a story such as this might scare him. But I nod slowly. “Mm-hm. And you know what? The Dark is a funny thing…”  
  
Pushing his toes into the futon to raise his head, Hinata looks into my face. “It’s all _black!_ ”  
  
I shrug and look thoughtfully to the ceiling. “No…sometimes it’s blue…”  
  
As Hinata settles, I wind a story into his heart, full of imaginative places and sweet words. Finally, as the world loses its reality for my little one, I bring the story to a close. Now, at long last, my child sleeps.  
  
Leaning into him, I murmur one final farewell. I lay these for a while yet, until my sad heart wakes me farther, and my eyes peel away from the sweet dark.  
  
I cannot stay here…  
  
I put one hand to Hinata’s soft cheek, cover him fully and plant one dry kiss on his crown.  
  
I’m away and into the night before my mind can truly grasp it--  
  
\--and beneath the moon at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Iichan as a nickname for Hinata. There was a girl called Hitomi with whom I was well acquainted-- and her family nicknamed her Ii-chan instead of Hi-chan, with the added bonus of Ii meaning “good.” So, aside from being a shortened name for the baby, they’re calling him a good kid. Cute, hm?  
> It’s also typical to add “chan” for toddlers, even boys. For instance, take Kochan for Kōzo. Unfortunately (for me), the boy children will only tolerate this while they’re toddlers, it seems…alas. It’s more fun to call a boy Kochan instead of Kōzo-kun… The girls, on the other hand, seem to allow their friends and family to call them by their nicknames for their whole lives.


	10. broken glass, 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hyde goes on a drive.

I tap my fingers on the steering wheel, driving through Tokyo late at night. The world is a different place at midnight. I try and breathe the fresh air, but the night holds too much wetness for my liking. It’s cold and windy, not what I’d take for the best of nights. I grit my teeth and push a strand of hair out of my eyes. This sucks.

Even as I lean into the steering wheel, a barrage of thoughts scurries through my racing mind. 

Hinata. Gackt. Megumi. They’re all of the important people in my life. They are my memories, or at least a few. I can hardly keep my eyes on the images within my mind’s eyes and I know the cheerful times that come to mind are not an accurate portrayal of my current life. The memories of my wife and child, however, fade to the background.

Again and again, I see his eyes, feel his lips.

My eyes drift from the road, but I quickly refocus. I lick my lips and try to think to think of simple sound--just noise, no words. It could be the beginning of a new song, or it could be the beginning of a painting. Whatever it is, my whole body is anxious for more movement than is available in my car. 

I know my heart is not only mine, but still, why should it be? I’ve chosen someone to be with, and she doesn’t boast nebulous-blue eyes or strong, firm muscles. So why should my mind slip away from her gentle smile and towards his selfish gaze?

I feel a surge of annoyance at Gackt now. How he (even now) rules my time with pointless thoughts. The stars should be pulling my gaze, not the memories of some night a few weeks ago. Why can’t I find peace even when I’m alone? I hate this twisted game, the circles he leads me in-- that I lead myself in. I scowl into the night.  
I refuse to let this man do anything to me that I don’t choose. He forgets, I think, what I am, who I am. I’m no woman, hardly soft to touch, and never sweet and demure. That man should know.

I frown again as the stop light signals for me to pause and wait. There, hung low against the sky, the light hums at me in its luminosity, privy to some understanding that I’m not. Here, under its now unblinking gaze, I think one final, clear thought before I continue on with this road.

I shall direct you, dear Gackt, back to where I want you. We’ll see who concedes first. 

I turn my vehicle about, searching for a place to stop and truly think. While I make my route, I think again of those sweet lips pulling into me as I seek out a quiet nook in the world to discern exactly what to do from here.

I pull down this familiar street, and I see a brilliant glow. I pause my midnight journey, and stop to wonder where it is. The thought comes upon me all the sudden and I cannot get it out of my head.

Blue. The world is blue.

The thought blurs in my mind, unexpected as it is, and I slowly correct myself. No, the world is a color diverse as light…it’s someone else who is blue. Nothing more. It wouldn’t make sense, otherwise.

Gackt, you set my mind in circles. 

I sigh and lean forward again. I drum my fingers on my leg. I have too much energy, too many pent-up feelings and too many unresolved thoughts. If I don’t talk to someone, I think I’ll scream. In seconds, my phone is out, and I flip it open to browse through the list of names. I stop when I get to Gackt’s name. This place, so close to the man who haunts my thoughts, seems right. I hesitate for a moment, but then press the button. 

I wait, listening to the tones, and I think that maybe I should hang up. 

But I don’t. 

A handful of rings later, I hear a familiar voice. “Hello, this is Gackt.” His voice is low and smooth as it always is, and not muffled by drowsiness at all. Like the mysterious man that he is, Gackt seems to exude an air of a millennia. 

At least he wasn’t asleep-- at least he isn’t dreaming. I sink into my chair, relieved. “Good evening, Gacchan. I hope I’m not calling in the middle of anything,” I say politely, even as I run an anxious hand through my hair. Somehow, things are changing.

As I regain my thoughts, Gackt makes a low humming noise, as though contemplating the question. “I’m not doing anything so important, no…” he pauses, sounding the slightest bit curious. It’s a tempered emotion. “And why might you be calling at this hour?” He sounds hesitant, unsure of how to treat me. Or maybe I’m reading things into his all-too-normal tone.

I laugh, breathless. “It’s not that late, Gacchan,” I say lightly, tugging at an amulet for safe driving that hangs from my rear-view mirror. A mischievous smile sneaks away my frown, and oh, wouldn’t it be great if he were wandering around that big house of his, hot and uncomfortable? I feel a surge of pleasure imagining Gackt as miserable as I am disturbed before snorting with embarrassment. 

Shit, that’d mean my voice would be turning him on--again. Not exactly what I’m looking for. 

I cough lightly. I really shouldn’t have called.

“Oh?” Gackt utters, feigning interested surprise. 

I want to laugh and scream at the same time. This is more difficult than I imagined. Why did I call? Why do I put myself in these sorts of situations? I grit my teeth and wonder how I can end this conversation without embarrassing myself. “No, Gackt. It’s not late…well, maybe a little late for a phone call. But you were up, so it’s not a problem, right?” I ramble on, and stare up at the night sky. This is so…

“Not at all.” Ever the gentleman, Gackt addresses me politely, though his tone is more sensual than not. 

I freeze up again. Damn, this is going in the wrong direction. What if he thinks I called because I want to pursue--something-- with him? He can’t read my tone any more than I can, right? 

“Forgive me for saying so, but you seem,” Gackt gives a delicate breath, almost hesitating. But Gackt never balks, and so he goes on, “you seem a bit tense, Hyde. You didn’t just call me to chat, did you?” 

I start; am I that transparent? But this is Gackt I’m talking to. I glower at the streetlight’s angry glow outside my windshield. The light shines into my car in just the wrong way, glaring into my eyes. I want to break the thing. 

Gackt gives a small chuckle, urging me to relax. He says nothing. He merely waits for me to say something, to come to him. The bastard. He’s having fun at my expense. He’s the one who should be nervous, not me.

“…this isn’t going the way I wanted it to…” I admit slowly. 

“Is that right?” Gackt asks, serene in his amusement. He makes some small movement, however-- I can hear the rustling of his clothes. “Well, that’s not such a bad thing, now is it?” He purrs delicately.

He doesn’t understand me any better than everyone else. I want someone to understand what I need even when I don’t I want a friendly conversation, but I want to throttle anyone who talks to me. 

I fake a laugh, and settle into my chair. As I push my hair away from my eyes, I murmur, “Oh, you know? All the world looks blue today…” I breathe the last word, surprised that I said it at all. Where is my mind today?

Gackt pauses. “Your favorite color.” He notes. Silence, then, as he considers the next part of our conversation. “I believe that ‘blue’ does not exist.” He states cryptically.

A little hurt and mostly annoyed, I choke out a laugh. “What-- why do you say that?” The gravel in my voice must surely be put to sleepiness, or perhaps an on-setting cold. Not to nerves. Or, at least, I hope it is so.

“Blue,” Gackt replies calmly, “Is merely a family name, dearest Hyde.” He pauses with this announcement, and his words come then in smooth, deep strokes. Like a master calligrapher with his stylus, Gackt pulls sound from behind luscious lips around a soft, trembling tongue. “There is the color of water, a light and airy thing, if you would have it…then there is azure, the color of sky…or an electric blue that lights as much as it glows with energy.” Here, silence breaks the flow while Gackt considers more color than I am thinking of, and he goes on with a lover-of-words’ passion. “Ah, but there is the blue of nature, the green that speaks of blue birth. Cobalt blue, which is as dark as any blue hopes to get, traditional indigo, and oh…the blue of the universe. But what would you call that, Hyde?”

The question takes me by surprise. “Nebula?” I hazard, failing the words that haunt my mind. “I don’t know…”

Gackt is unperturbed. “But which is that you see today? All around you?” His voice is soft, barely audible. It’s an invitation, and it’s a warning.

“Gackt,” I call, half in earnest concern, half exasperated. 

“Oh? You would call this blue by my name?” His voice is teasing and all too sensual.

“Good night, Gackt,” I reply abruptly, not willing to commit myself further in this conversation.

I pull away from the phone with barely time to hear Gackt’s lascivious voice murmur, “Take care, Hyde.”

My heart burns a hole in my chest as it speeds along. I look blankly into the night sky. I sigh. What did that accomplish? Are we any closer to reasserting our friendship, or closer to--whatever--it is Gackt started that night? What do I want from Gackt? I mull through these thoughts.

I stare up at the moon, blocking the modest light. Slowly, I turn about heading for a sleepy house, haunted by those eyes.

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

I lean into the high-backed chair with an air of mystery. Here, at one of Japan’s most exclusive English-style tea shops, Megumi and I take afternoon tea. It’s an unusual break for me, brought about by someone’s mistake, I’m sure, but it works out in my favor. I need this time with my wife, after all. I need to remember why we married-- why we built a family like this. Otherwise…well.

The air is made crisp by a biting wind. I look out the glass onto the veranda, eyeing the high-backed chairs out there. It seems a little cold from in here, even though it’s nestled between two buildings. Though I long to be outside (screw the cold), I can see a glimmer of the sky. From out there, it might be glimpsed with ease, with all the azure and cerulean shades. I ignore the thought that immediately follows this fantasy, the reminder of the too-real outside world that I don’t want to face.

Outside, it would be intimate…everyone is locked in here away from the wind. In most places around here, if I listened hard enough, I’m sure I could catch someone’s conversation. Thankfully, though, Megumi knows better than most and lead us to this private little corner-- and, oh, the mid-afternoon sun is creeping into view.

I smile, and say as much to my wife. “Look, it’s getting closer…” I reach out playfully, closing my hand around the golden-rod colored disk. “A present,” I let the mischief infiltrate my smile, “for you, dear.”

Megumi laughs sweetly, all of yesterday’s annoyance clear of her beautiful features. “Oh, you…” but she is pleased, that smile says. 

The silence stretches between us, and I gaze quietly over the horizon, studying what I can see through the glass. It’s a small distraction from the turmoil within, and despite my pretty words, Megumi notices.

“Dear, you seem a little stressed,” she murmurs, all softness and care. She waits a moment, then sighs a little. “…so you don’t want to talk to talk about it…hm?” She looks at me imploringly, waiting for me to look her in the eyes. When I (stubbornly) don’t, she pushes on to a new subject. For a moment, they seem almost-- but her words chase any unpleasantries away. “Do you remember, Hyde? There was that party…”

I look at her blankly, not catching her meaning. I pick up my teacup and wait for her to continue.

“I was thinking we’d invite everyone over and trade recipes. You know, that simple “gourmet food party” Mariko was telling us about.” Megumi stirs her spoon, making soft clicking noises against the china. She looks at me from across the table, a questioning look in those chocolate eyes. She licks her lips, as though pondering what to say. She’s silent for a long moment.

I look to my side and see a couple fawning over one another. The woman leans in and takes her boyfriend’s hand. She’s smiling even as she wrinkles her nose. I look away and allow my eyes to settle on the window behind Megumi. The sky is a pleasant shade--and more clear than it has been of late.

“Hyde,” Megumi begins. Her tone tells me that she’s about to begin a barrage of worries and “concerns.” 

I take a slow breath, and lean away from the table to cross my arms. 

 

“You’re so distant lately. You’re so quiet--more so than usual, I mean.” She purses her lips and leans forward. “I’m worried about you. I want you to know that you can always talk to me.” She speaks the words softly, but with earnest. She touches her neck delicately, and offers a smile. “I really,” and she smiles again, but says nothing more. Her hand flutters to her lap. “Well, you really should talk about whatever’s bothering you.”

I nod, and shift awkwardly. Talk. That’s always the first thing a woman will tell you to do in a situation like this. Hell, in any situation. I tap my foot restlessly, and my fingers itch for a cigarette. I want to look anywhere where Megumi is not, but etiquette demands that I acknowledge her. I swing my leg to the floor and push away from the table.

Megumi frowns. “Wait, where are you--”

“I’ll be right back, dear. I just want a breath of fresh air.” I gesture towards the windows behind her. “I’ll be right back.” I say it quietly, and try to imitate her earnest, gentle tone. Even I think it sounds distant.

Megumi puts her cup down. “I’ll come with you,” she murmurs and pushes away from the table. She looks up and meets my gaze.

“No, no, honey. I’ll only be a minute…I was just going to grab a smoke,” I hurry to say, shoving my hands in my pocket to fumble for a cigarette. 

Megumi purses her lips and looks at me firmly, “We’re here to spend time together, dear.” She emphasizes the word quietly, but with the same firm commitment of before. She keeps her voice low enough to be private, but with conviction.

I nod, and feel my shoulders tense. I head for the balcony; Megumi follows. I reluctantly hold the door open for her and walk to the corner. The sky is XX. I want to smile and turn my face towards the heavens, but a cold weight in my stomach keeps my expression blank. I fumble with the lighter, nearly dropping it. I offer Megumi a shaky smile when I see her watching. 

I wonder if I stay out here long enough, will she go back in? I take a deep breath and hold it. Something about this fresh, almost-spring air feels fragile--as though it would fall to pieces at even a gentle caress. 

I look to Megumi and watch her shiver in the wind. I turn my eyes down, smiling a little at her expression; she looks fit to call down a mob…she could certainly deal with me. I lean against the metal barrier and ease into a more unassuming position. I’m still not relaxed, but I can only hope that Megumi will drop the subject. I watch her rub at her arms, looking as cold as she must have felt a month earlier. 

I give my wife a playful prod. “Are you that cold? It’s much better than it was a week ago, you baby!” I smile now.

Megumi punches me back and smiles as well. “You’re the one who wanted to come out.”

“It’s nice out,” I grumble, defiant. 

We look out at the city in silence. I wonder what to say to my wife that could make things better. I can’t get the words past my tongue. I feel a cold shiver that’s not from the air. 

I look at Megumi with worried eyes, and watch as the curling tendrils of smoke disappear into the chill air.

Where are things headed for my wife and I?

**Author's Note:**

> thoughts?


End file.
